


Memento Mori

by purplewitch156



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Heartwarming and heartbreaking, Humor, M/M, Multiple Lives, No character bashing, Pining, Rebirth, Romance, Sexual Content, Underage Refers to Fantasizing About 16 Yr Old, Various Supporting Characters - Freeform, With A Twist, silliness, witty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22051093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplewitch156/pseuds/purplewitch156
Summary: “The only reason any of this is happening at all is because of you. You seek me out. Again and again and again. You bring me back. This isn’t my party at all. It’s yours.”There was no denying the tension in Harry now and relishing the achievement, Tom pressed even closer, invading Harry’s personal space, nearly making him flatten against the window.“So tell me, Harry, why do you keep inviting me to play?”Or, in other words, being dead means jack shit.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 297
Kudos: 1529
Collections: My loved ones, Tomarry fic collection best read, Yukikawa’s HP Bookshelf





	1. Make Me Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

At seventeen, Harry Potter died. He woke to a world of white, a mist-shrouded King’s Cross. A hundred years later, he died again, and again he found himself in that very same train station. Dumbledore was not there to greet him, nor anyone else. This did not bother Harry. He felt, as he had on that previous occasion, deeply, unshakably peaceful. The mist thinned and a glistening, scarlet train appeared, the train that would take him _on_. There was not a trace of worry or trepidation within him. He took a step and the doors slid open, but a sudden, horrific wail sounded through the empty station. Harry spun around. He couldn’t see anyone in the mist, but he knew who that voice belonged to. He had not thought of the man in over forty years.

Lord Voldemort.

Harry didn’t understand why he could still hear Tom Riddle’s agonized suffering. They were no longer connected, but maybe … maybe bonds as deep as theirs, made of souls and blood, were never _quite_ broken. Harry knew, instinctively, that if he boarded the train, he would never hear that pitiful sound again, but he lingered, torn. He remembered like it was yesterday: the raw, red, shrunken soul, thumping and wheezing beneath a bench.

_“Are you sure we can’t do anything?”_

_“There is no help possible.”_

As if Riddle knew he was there, the wails grew louder. Standing before the gleaming train, Harry did not feel anger or trepidation towards Riddle. He’d healed the wounds left behind by that man long ago, but Riddle … Harry could imagine all too well the endless suffering Lord Voldemort was bestowed.

Did he realize now, Harry wondered. Did he understand that this anguish was from his own doing? Did he realize that he’d dug his own grave?

It had been a hundred years — _a hundred years —_ since the Battle of Hogwarts. The peace that had filled him was gone, snuffed out like a candle, leaving Harry chilled. He felt sick. Sick and old. Unbearably old. He looked back over his shoulder at the train. His parents, his friends, Sirius, Lupin, Ginny — they would all be there, waiting on the other side.

The crying hitched, turning to shrieks.

_No help possible._

But Harry had spent a lifetime doing impossible things. So, too, had Tom Riddle.

Perhaps it was because he knew his time was up or perhaps it was the wild recklessness he had never managed to master, but Harry stepped away from the train. He strode into the swirling mist, in search of his long dead enemy.

**FOURTEEN LIVES LATER…**

The words came to Tom as a siren’s call. The mayhem raging in his mind cleared instantly, like a damp cloth wiped across a chalkboard — there and then gone; all his focus snapped to attention, snapping onto those two words, uttered by a single mouth, the same mouth. Always that mouth. The agony that filled his … body? he wasn’t entirely sure what he was in this place … fell away; everything fell away until he was weightless. But that quiet and peace was only a speck of a second before he was once again in a special kind of hell. The hell that was Harry Potter.

“And where are we now?” Tom asked the moment his body formed. He was grateful he did not stand in a sewer, as had been the last time Harry had summoned him like some genie from its lamp. The smell, on that occasion, had nearly knocked him over. Instead, he and Harry stood in a small bedroom, tidy and clean though sparsely decorated. It smelt faintly of lemon and something else … something medical. It reminded him of his old orphanage and his stomach sank. These _rebirths,_ for want of a better word, took the form of highly detailed dreams rather than reality. They had never, for instance, returned to their own pasts, retracing their old lives. Instead, each new Life (as Harry called them) reshaped into something new, something outrageous: a tourist space ship orbiting the Spanish Dancer Galaxy, a Stegosaurus ranch in Colorado, the Italian Mob operating through the French sewers, smuggling gems in delicate petits fours. The people who populated each of these Lives were from their own pasts — Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Weasleys and Malfoys, Hagrid (always so incredibly hairy) and more, but these people never behaved as if they had any prior dealings with Tom or Harry. Tom crossed the room, stepping up to a small, plain window, and wondered who’d been shuffled into this fresh torment.

“I see we still don’t have magic,” he observed, glaring down at a sunbathed, walled-in courtyard.

Magic had never been present in these blasted _Lives_. Not once.

“Well,” he repeated when Harry did not answer, “ _where_ are we?”

He turned, bestowing his glare upon the boy.

Harry — sixteen, if Tom had to make a guess (and he was always very good at guessing) — wore a glare of his own. He, unlike Tom, was always reborn the normal way. Sometimes Lily and James Potter lived long and fruitful lives. Tom had even shared a rather enjoyable chaotic Sunday brunch with them once. He had the feeling, though, that in this particular Life, there would be no brunches.

In Harry’s continued silence, Tom crossed his arms, exasperated. “Don’t tell me you’re still angry. _I didn’t know it was a bomb._ ”

Who, for Merlin’s sake, would think a wedding cake would have a bomb baked in it?

Harry tapped his fingers against his windpipe and mouthed three words: _I can’t talk._

“You’re … mute?”

Harry nodded.

Tom grinned. “Finally a positive.”

Unimpressed, Harry flipped him a bird.

Reality was sinking in. He was _out_. Out of his prison. Tom felt giddy. He supposed he should thank Harry. It was all because of him that he was able to leave his cursed purgatory, after all.

“We’re dead,” Harry had explained to him, so many Lives ago. “Both of us. I heard you crying—”

“I do not _cry_ ,” Tom had snarled.

Harry had said many other things on that occasion — the Horcruxes were the link (if Harry found one and spoke the inscription on its face, he would release Tom); they both retained all their memories, but no one else did; they were probably, most likely, still dead and these Lives were a continued experience of death — but Tom had hardly taken in his words. They had sunk in much later. He’d been too overwhelmed at the time. The pain — the constant, agonizing pain — was gone and he felt light as a feather. He felt like a new man. He felt just as he had when he’d been resurrected, full of _life_. The place he sat — on a glass bench under a glass dome, the Spanish Dancer Galaxy swirling above him — was impossible. He was in space, on a space ship.

“Intergalactic tourist passenger vessel,” Harry had clarified. “The IG-80. I’m security.” And there was a little badge on his chest that Tom had not noticed.

“IG-80?”

Harry shrugged, the glow from the galaxy reflecting off his glasses.

“It’s what they call it.”

He looked just the same to Tom — messy black hair, green eyes, thin face — but he was older and his glasses were horn-rimmed. He sat next to Tom on the narrow bench, speaking calmly as the oddest collection of people meandered around them. A young child with lavender skin was swinging between her parents. A fuzzy, lizard-like creature padded along beside them on a leash. 

“You’re not worried I’ll attack you.” Tom did not phrase it like a question, but as an observation.

Harry, sporting a stubble, smiled.

“Not anymore.”

“But I could,” Tom pointed out. “I could kill you right now.”

“You could,” Harry agreed. “And this will all vanish and you’ll go back to where you’ve been ever since you died at Hogwarts and I’ll go on.”

“On?”

“Yes, Tom. On. I won’t bother you anymore. I won’t seek you out again.”

“Again?”

“Yes, Tom. We’ve already done this ten times now, but you keep killing me before I get a chance to explain. That’s why I locked you up in the janitor’s closet, so you’d listen to me.”

“I don’t … I don’t recall those times.”

“I didn’t understand what was happening at first, either,” Harry admitted. He reclined on their bench, stretching out a leg. “It took me a while to sort it out. It was like I was dreaming, but the moment I released you I remembered everything, instantly, but you shoved a pair scissors into my neck before I could do anything.”

Tom blinked.

“I shoved a pair of …”

“Scissors. Yeah.”

Tom wished he remembered that.

“You mentioned another option,” he said slowly, trying to wrap his brain around what Harry was saying.

“Well, as I figure it, since we’re here anyway, we could live this Life.”

Tom looked at Harry as if he’d gone mad.

“Shepherding Muggles through space?”

“They aren’t too annoying,” Harry had replied with a half-smile that Tom would become as familiar with as his voice, as his face. “And besides,” he'd added lightly, looking upward at the glass dome, “the view’s to die for.”

They weren’t in space anymore, though. Or on a ranch in Colorado or in a French sewer.

“So how long have you been—” Tom spotted Harry’s scowl. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he hissed. “ _Why_ do you have to be mute? You weren’t in the last one.”

Though Tom never changed, his soul always stepping back into the body of Tom Riddle, looking like he’d just closed shop at Borgin and Burkes, there was always something different about Harry. He was either color-blind or claustrophobic or suffered such severe sleep walking that he required being cuffed to his bed, none of which, Tom knew, had troubled Harry in his original Life. 

Lips pressed thin, Harry snatched up Tom’s diary from the bed, scratched something inside it and threw it at his head just as the bedroom door opened.

“Harry! No throwing things! You know the rule.”

Eyebrows high, Tom turned. Bellatrix Lestrange stood framed in the doorway, dressed in a luxurious black gown reminiscent of Victorian England. Her hooded eyes left Harry and fixed upon Tom.

“My apologies, sir. He is usually more behaved.”

“Is he?” said Tom, cutting a glance at Harry, who looked fit to kill.

“You must be the young doctor from London.” Bella strode into the tiny room and offered Tom a lace-gloved hand. “I received Doctor Smethwyck’s letter just this morning. I was not expecting you until tomorrow, Mr …”

“Riddle. Tom Riddle. I decided to catch an early train.”

 _Doctors?_ So this was a hospital?

Or an asylum.

“May I give you a tour, Mr. Riddle? Did you leave your luggage in the foyer? I can have Hannah bring it to your room.”

“Unfortunately my luggage was stolen.”

Bella looked properly scandalized. “That’s dreadful!”

Tom could feel Harry’s eye roll.

“I have informed the authorities,” Tom lied, “but that does not change the fact that I am rather ill prepared.”

“Give Hannah your measurements,” Bella said at once. “I’ll have her pick up some things to tide you over.”

“That is awfully kind of you.”

Bella beamed. Tom had played enough roles in enough Lives to know that, in this one, he was not meant to linger in Harry’s room. As Bella escorted him out, Tom shot a glance over his shoulder. Now sitting on the bed, Harry stared back at him. There was something in his gaze … something that Tom had not seen in a long time. A warning. Tom surreptitiously slipped his old diary in his pocket and let Bella close Harry’s door.

“I am delighted that you’re joining the staff, Mr. Riddle,” she said as she led him down an austere corridor with similar plain doors like Harry’s lining the walls. “You will find our institution functions at the highest level. Even though the boys are quite incurable, we at St. Brutus do our best to make their lives as functional as possible.”

Already curious about this new Life, Tom’s interest mounted.

“Incurable? Why, forgive me Miss—”

“Black. Bellatrix Black. My sisters and I run St. Brutus’ Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.”

“Forgive me, Miss Black,” Tom continued with a little bow. “But I am a doctor” — it was impossible to keep the sardonic smile off his lips — “and a doctor is always searching to cure the incurable.”

“Of course,” Bella agreed. “And many of our boys here are far better than they were, but we do take the most troubled cases. Unfortunately, that means most of the boys here will never heal enough to rejoin society. They are far too damaged. Far too wayward. Far too tempted by the wildness of the world. They are better — safer — here. We give them work. We give them studies. They are well versed in the arts and sciences. They have everything they need.”

“And the boy I was just speaking too … Harvey?”

“Harry.”

“Yes. _Harry_. How is his status?”

“He’s a good worker. Polite. But as you just encountered, there is still much that must be done. He is troubled. Very troubled indeed.”

“When did he arrive?”

“Almost two weeks ago.”

“And his crime?”

“Brandished a cleaver at his aunt and uncle’s guests during a dinner party. They were adamant that he be transferred to us at once.”

* * *

Though Bella took him through the large hospital and then the sprawling gardens and grounds, Tom did not spot Harry again. Other inhabitants of the hospital were out and about, all dressed in the same stone-gray uniform that Harry had worn, tending orange trees in the greenhouses, trimming hedges, folding sheets and linens, prepping meals. Tom felt that he’d stepped back in time, but instead of mopping floors, he was the spectator from on high. He wondered what Harry’s duties were.

Bella and her sister Narcissa did not personally take care of the wards; that job went the third Black sister, Andromeda, and Lucius Malfoy. Draco, far more pompous than Tom had ever seen him, lounged about, ringing the service bell every quarter of an hour, just for the entertainment of making a servant scurry up the stairs.

“I’m glad I finally convinced Narcissa and Bella to hire another doctor,” Lucius said to Tom under a covered veranda. He offered Tom a glass of chilled punch. “Sixty filled beds was becoming a stretch for Andromeda and me.”

Andromeda greeted him warmly enough before her sharp gaze spotted two boys disappear behind some shrubbery. “Excuse me,” she said shortly and strode after them.

Walden Macnair manned the gate, patrolling an impressive fence with a pack of dogs and in the basement, in charge of the medical supplies, was none other than Severus.

“How do you do?”

Shaking his hand, Tom, who had always rather liked the man, thought Severus had grown even waxier.

Scattered about the hospital were a dozen nurses, tasked, in Tom’s mind, to intercede fights more than treat. In his short circuit through the hospital, he witnessed four scuffles and two bloodied noses.

The runners of the hospital did not dine with their charges, but in a private chamber, leaving that, most likely raucous affair, to the nurses to mediate. As Tom cut into succulent pork chops, his mind again drifted to Harry and what his meal consisted off. Grisly stew?

Free from his endless torturous purgatory with a gas-lit, full-course dinner and now a large, comfortable bedchamber all to himself, Tom was immensely satisfied.

As he readied for bed, he remembered the diary Harry had thrown at him. He pulled it from his coat pocket, sat on the foot of the bed and let himself relive those early days. The Horcrux inside had long ago died, the black leather and crisp sheets now as ordinary as any Muggle book. His fingers caressed the cover before flipping it open. On the first page was Harry’s writing. The words had not seeped down into the page and vanish as was the dairy’s way, but remained, shining and clear. The two words that were the key to his freedom — _Memento Mori_ — were written clearly and legibly at the top in Harry’s hand and then, farther down in a sharper, cutting scrawl: _Learn sign language, prick._

Tom snorted, humored. He set the diary on the night table, changed for bed, jerked the curtains closed around his four-poster and extinguished the lamps.

* * *

A different person might have fretted about playing doctor, but Tom slept easy. He took his breakfast in the private dining chamber and politely yet firmly brushed aside Bella’s desire to have her see to his lost luggage.

“I am flattered, but there is no need.”

“Then I’ll have Oliver ready the carriage.”

St. Brutus was located on the edge of London. In the city, Tom left the driver to wait outside a pub and went in search of fat wallets. Though always dressed in a standard suit and tie for each new Life, the afterlife — for want of a better name — never slipped money into his pockets. In every Life that had come before, Harry supplied whatever Tom needed in that regard but Harry was not in such a position this time, but that was no bother. Tom was an excellent thief.

Two hours later, with shopping loaded and dressed much better for the part of a city doctor, Tom told the driver, “Nearest bookshop, Oliver.”

By the time Tom returned to St. Brutus’ Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, he’d read the entire sign language guide. It was nearing a quarter to four when Oliver pulled back on the reins and the carriage came to a stop, gravel crunching beneath its wheels. Tom left the chore of carrying his shopping to the servants and went in search of Harry. He found him in one of the greenhouses, caring for the hospital’s prized blood oranges.

As Harry inspected the leaves for mites, Tom stepped up beside him.

“And how are we today?”

Without pausing in his task, Harry gave him another bird. Smirking, Tom took a step closer, shielding Harry from a nurse’s watchful eye. He covered the offending hand.

“Come now, I know you can do better than that,” he whispered.

Harry shot him an irritable glare and Tom, knowing the nurse’s back was turned, signed, **_Little piece of shit._**

Harry started, blinked twice, grinned, and replied, **_A_ _sshole_.**

Eyes glittering, Tom turned to the nurse.

“Madam, I need to acquaint myself with the patients. I would like to start with Harry, if this is a good time.”

“Of course, Doctor Riddle. Behave yourself, Mr. Potter,” she added sternly.

Tom did not lead Harry back inside the hospital, instead taking a turn through an opening in the hedge and down a path that took them into a patch of wood that flanked the southern border of the property. Tom was sure that if he walked long enough he would bump into the tall, iron fence, topped with barbs, that circled the property.

When Tom felt that they’d gone far enough to not be disturbed, he turned to Harry.

“You tried to kill your relatives with a cleaver? Harry, I think I’m starting to rub off on you.”

Harry rolled his eyes. His glasses were back to the round, simple frames Tom was most familiar with. He felt oddly nostalgic. Here they were again, standing in an overgrown forest, but this time, Tom possessed no murderous intent.

Harry moved his hands and fingers in a fluid flurry. Tom stared.

“Do that again,” he said, pulling the dictionary he’d bought from his pocket, “but slowly.”

Harry laughed, though no sound issued from his mouth. They sat together on a fallen tree and he repeated the gestures, taking his time.

“You … overheard that people had gone missing from the hospital and decided to be institutionalized yourself by attacking your aunt and uncle’s dinner guests to find out what was going on?” Tom said ten minutes later.

**_Yes._ **

Tom rubbed his temple, a headache grinding into life. “Harry—”

Harry tapped him on the arm. **_Something’s wrong_** _,_ he insisted.

“So you decided to play detective,” said Tom wearily. “Of course you did. And have you unearthed a nefarious plot?”

Harry’s lips thinned.

“I see.”

Harry signed, but Tom cut him off.

“How long have you had my diary? Have you been sitting on it for days?”

Harry didn’t meet Tom’s eyes.

“ _Weeks?_ ”

 ** _Not that long_ ,** Harry assured him.

“You are the most _irritating_ —”

Harry put his hand on Tom’s wrist, stilling him. He held Tom’s gaze this time.

**_I need your help. Please._ **

“No.”

Harry was startled. **_Why?_**

“Because the last time you insisted on saving the world we got _blown up_ and the time before that we were thrown off a cliff and the time before that —”

Harry was signing excuses and Tom ignored them all.

“We are not helping,” said Tom flatly. “I’ll see about getting you discharged. Do not fight me on this, Harry,” he added sharply because Harry had crossed his arms, looking mutinous. “I am sick of being dragged along on your save-the-world crusades. In case you haven’t noticed, they don’t end well. Now come on. They’ve probably noticed we’re missing.”

* * *

“Discharged?” Bella repeated.

“We had a very fruitful session,” said Tom. “He is deeply remorseful for his unfortunate outburst.”

“Which one is this one?” asked Draco, pausing in dribbling more gravy over his chicken.

“Harry Porter,” said Narcissa.

“Potter, actually,” Tom corrected.

“Oh!” said Draco, brightening. “Cleaver boy! You think he’s ready to be let loose?” He laughed and the rest of the table joined in.

Tom schooled his features. Underneath the table he strangled his napkin, imagining it to be Draco’s neck, or better yet, Harry’s. Sometimes all he wanted to do was snap him like a twig, but Tom had learned long ago not to give in to temptation. He could not remain in a Life that did not include Harry. In a bitter twist of fate, the boy was his lifeline.

“I admit that I have only had one session with Harry,” Tom went on calmly, “but it is my professional opinion that he is far more mentally stable than his actions have suggested.”

“We shall see,” said Bella. “More wine, Severus?”

Severus held out his crystal glass and Bella filled it. He brought it to his nose, sniffed and made a look of disdain.

“Not the right vintage?” Tom asked.

“It’s a curse of being around chemicals all day,” he replied. “Everything smells sour.”

“A top up, Doctor Riddle?” Bella prompted.

“Please, Madam. Call me Tom.”

“Then you must call me Bella,” she replied.

Tom clicked their glasses together and drank.

Bella propped her elbow onto the table, resting her pointed chin on her knuckles.

“I am surprised that you think so well of Harry after your first encounter with him.”

“He reminds me of myself,” Tom replied. “I too had a difficult start in life.”

“You tried to murder a houseful of guests as well?”

Tom chuckled at Bella’s joke.

“No. I butchered animals. My parents, thinking I had skill, set me on the path of surgery and, long story short, here I am.”

“So you are saying that some youths, if placed on better roads early in life, may blossom into inspiring figures?”

“Do you find me inspiring, Bella?” Tom asked as the others chatted, cutlery clinking.

Bella held his gaze. “Immensely.”

A servant took it upon herself at that moment to enter the chamber.

“My Lady,” she said with a curtsy, “there is a telegram for you.”

“Thank you, Hannah. Excuse me.” Bella rose, letting her fingers glide along Tom’s shoulders as she passed. As Bella left the room, Tom realized Andromeda had been watching them. The instant he focused on her, Andromeda’s eyes returned to her plate.

Not long after Bella’s departure, the dinner ended and the group moved to the lounge for brandy and a round of bridge. Tom, seeing an opportunity to ply details for possible escape routes, remained longer than he normally would have. By a quarter to midnight, he retired to his room, a plan already half-formed. He would need to smooth out the kinks, but he was certain that in no time at all, he and Harry would be rid of this place.

He undressed, turned down the lamps and shimmied under the sheets, staring up into the dark canopy of his four-poster. Tom chewed his bottom lip. Harry was going to be difficult, not that that was anything new. He wouldn’t just let Tom take him away. Not after he’d done so much to get himself in the hospital. Tom would need to make a visit to the basement, preferably while Severus was out. Tom had seen a few potent sleeping drafts on the shelves and if Tom was unable to acquire one of those … well, a knock on the head would always suffice.

Grinning, Tom turned on his side, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

* * *

The moon was full. Its silver light streamed through the Forbidden Forest, illuminating his path. Tom walked without pausing until he entered a small clearing. Harry stood there, as if he’d been waiting for him. He wore robes much like the ones at Hogwarts. Tom stepped closer, and as he did, Harry, never once looking away from him, peeled the robe off his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. He wore nothing underneath.

In the moonlight, Harry looked like a fantasy. Like some creature that had slipped out from a fairy tale. A cursed prince, wild and head-strong. Tom drank him in. He’d never seen a body more perfect. He stepped closer and when Harry did not retreat, he touched his hip. His fingers skated up his side, skipping from rib to rib, and brushing a nipple. He pushed Harry back against a tree just as Harry took hold of his face, kissing him. His hands tucked beneath Harry’s thighs, lifting him up, helping him wrap his legs around his waist. He kneaded and groped as Harry kissed him like he was trying to swallow Tom’s tongue.

Tom realized that he was naked too. Trapped between their stomachs, Harry’s cock rubbed firmly against him. Gripping Harry’s ass, Tom spread his cheeks, sliding his cock along his cleft. Harry’s breath hitched. The hand buried in his hair scraped his scalp, the other bit into Tom’s shoulder. His breath ghosted across Tom’s lips.

 _“Make me scream._ ”

Tom jolted awake. The darkness of his bed chamber pressed hard against his eyes. His hand traveled under the sheets down his body to his cock. It was hot and rigid. His mind went blank.

He hadn’t had an erection since … he couldn’t remember. He threw off the sheets and sat up, igniting the oil lamps mounted on either side of the bed and in their illumination, the uncomfortable situation stood tall.

What was he supposed to do now? Didn’t this sort of thing go away? Tom glared at his cock, waiting for it to wilt, but it didn’t. Grimacing, he grasped hold of the root, tentatively sliding his hand up and down. His thumb brushed the head and he jerked as electricity sizzled through him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

If Harry could see him now.

Harry …

Harry naked, bathed in moonlight. Harry kissing him. Harry grinding against him. Harry lowering himself onto him.

Tom closed his eyes and imagined what it would feel like … Harry’s tightness squeezing around him, the bed bouncing, Harry’s hands flat on Tom’s chest, his breathing coming in short hitches as he rode Tom—

The orgasm came out of nowhere, shocking him back to reality. He stared at his wet hand, his whole body quivering.

* * *

He missed breakfast. Without any d estination he walked the hospital’s halls, his mind pulled in a dozen different directions.

It didn’t _mean_ _anything_.

Just because he’d masturbated to a fantasy of Harry didn’t mean—

“Doctor Riddle, I’ve been looking for you.”

Tom turned to see Andromeda stride up the corridor to him.

“It is time for the patients to have their check-ups. If you’d please follow me.”

“Couldn’t Lucius—”

“Doctor Malfoy is already seeing to his patients,” said Andromeda. “You _were_ hired to assist, were you not?”

Tom forced his voice to be pleasant. “Of course.”

Unsmiling, Andromeda led him into a clean, open office and Harry was sitting on the examination table. He flashed him a smile and Tom’s palms began to sweat.

“I will leave you to it,” said Andromeda, stepping back into the hall and closing the door, shutting them in together.

Harry began to unbutton his shirt.

“What are you doing?” Tom hissed.

Harry’s eyebrows rose.

**_Undressing._ **

“There’s no need for that! _Salazar._ I’m not examining you.”

Harry let out a breath of relief, quickly buttoned his shirt back up, looked at Tom expectantly and said, **_Well?_**

“Well what?” Tom snapped.

**_Why are you still here?_ **

Confused, Tom replied, “Where else would I be?”

**_If you’re not going to help me, there’s no point in you staying._ **

“Harry, we’re both leaving.”

**_No._ **

“Yes,” Tom corrected, “we are.”

Harry’s hands moved in sharp jabs.

**_I’m not._ **

“ _Listen to me, you insufferable—_ ”

“Are we having a problem?”

Tom and Harry both looked around at the sugary sweet voice. In the heat of the moment, Tom had not heard the office door open. A very short woman stood in the doorway. He’d never seen her before in his life. She looked like a pink frosted toad and her wide, cold smile was fixed in place.

Next to him, Tom felt Harry stiffen.

“Ah, Madam Umbridge. I see you’ve met our new doctor.” Bella and Andromeda appeared behind the woman. “This is Doctor Tom Riddle.”

“Oh, yes,” said Umbridge still in that breathy, girlish voice. “One of Smethwyck’s recruits?”

“Madam Umbridge is the chief benefactor for the hospital,” Bella explained. “She periodically pays us a visit.”

“And how are you liking my hospital?” Umbridge asked Tom.

“It’s quite orderly,” Tom replied.

“And the patients?” she asked. Her bulging eyes shifted slightly to Harry. “How are they behaving?”

“Perfectly.”

“Really? Even _this_ one? It looked to me that you were having a teensy, tiny argument. Boy, were you speaking back to your doctor?”

There was no question that Harry knew this woman. His spine was rigid, his jaw clenched, his hands fisted into balls.

“I asked you a question,” said Umbridge sweetly. “When I ask you a question, you will answer me.”

“Harry is incapable of speech, Madam Umbridge,” Bella interceded.

Umbridge gave a short, little _humph_ before picking up a folder that Tom had not noticed. Harry’s name was on the tab. She flipped it open and scanned the pages.

“I see here that this boy assaulted Doctor Riddle with a book.”

“I would hardly call it assault,” said Tom, insulted.

“What was his punishment?” Umbridge asked Bella.

“He went to bed without dinner.”

Umbridge made that irritating sound again, a cross between a high-pitched snort and cough.

“Clearly that was not a sufficient enough reprimand. You are not being hard enough with these boys, Bellatrix. I told you last time I was here — I expect a very firm hand. Why, this awful boy is already defying his doctor again.”

“Harry. Go to your room,” said Bella. “You will stay there the rest of the day.”

Harry slid off the examination table, but Umbridge, with her cold, sugary laugh remained in the doorway, blocking the exit.

“That will not do! No, no, no. That will not do at all. When was his last beating?”

“He has not had one.”

“There is your problem!” said Umbridge. “Where is darling Macnair? Don’t you worry, dear.” She reached out a hand to Tom, squeezing his forearm in a reassuring way, her eyes alight with happiness. “Macnair will show you how it’s done. He has exceptional wrist control.”

Bella turned to her sister.

“You heard Madam Umbridge, Meda. Fetch Macnair. Harry, remove your shirt.”

“There is no need for this,” Tom began as Harry backed up.

“If you do not have the stomach to do what is necessary to help these sick boys then I do not see any reason for you to be employed in my hospital,” said Umbridge.

Far too soon, Andromeda returned with Macnair. He carried a wide belt.

“How many lashings, Madam Umbridge?” he asked.

“Twenty should be a good start. After all, we want the message to _sink in_.”

* * *

Harry’s hands were secured by padded cuffs on a wall which told Tom that this sort of punishment was common practice. Though Harry couldn’t scream, Tom knew he would be. Flanking Tom against the opposite wall stood Bella and Andromeda. Bella observed the punishment coolly, but Andromeda couldn’t quite look at Harry.

Umbridge raised a hand and Macnair stopped and stepped aside. She inspected Harry, touching his blistered back with her ring clad fingers. Harry flinched.

“Much better,” she commended. “You’ll think twice before doing something so terrible like throwing books, won’t you boy?”

Shaking, Harry nodded.

Satisfied, Umbridge stepped away. “You may continue the tour now, Bellatrix.”

“Right this way, Madam,” said Bella, opening the office door. Macnair followed, and the moment they had left, Andromeda and Tom were at Harry’s side.

“You’re going to be fine, Harry,” said Andromeda, unbuckling his wrists from the straps.

Tom stared at the woman incredulously. Harry’s back was a landscape of welts, blood oozing from some.

“Let’s get you to your room—”

“I’ll do that.”

Andromeda looked at Tom, startled.

“You don’t need to look after this, Doctor Riddle. I’m happy to—”

“I will take care of him,” Tom repeated firmly. “As I am a _doctor_.”

Andromeda hesitated before picking up Harry’s shirt from the examination table and passing it to Tom along with a bottle of ointment, bandages and a clean cloth.

“Very well.”

Careful not to put too much pressure on Harry’s back, Tom helped him from the Care Ward to the South Wing where the patients had their quarters. They passed half a dozen boys. The pair of them could have been hippogriffs for the stares they garnered. Harry’s breathing was labored by the time they reached his room and when Tom helped him lower onto his bed, lying on his stomach, he was stark-white.

Tom uncorked the bottle Andromeda had given him. There was no chair in the room, so he sat, perched, on the edge of the bed. The cot was so narrow it was impossible to keep his hip from pressing against Harry’s. His heart rate accelerated at the contact, the room growing hot. Like a spell, his dream returned in full color.

Trying to distract himself, he gave the bottle’s contents a sniff before dabbing the oil-like substance onto the welts. Harry flinched again, sucking in a breath, but he let Tom continue. In silence he worked, growing angrier and angrier. Angry at Harry for putting himself in such a stupid situation. Angry at himself for being angry at all.

Flinging the cloth aside, he shot to his feet, but Harry grabbed his wrist. The feeling of his fingers against his skin seared, rooting Tom to the spot.

Green-tinged and sweating, Harry stared up at him. He mouthed, **_Where are you going?_**

“I thought you told me to leave,” Tom replied coldly.

Harry blinked. He began to sign, but winced. He pointed at a notepad and pencil that resided on the night table. Glaring, Tom handed them to him and watched him scribble.

_Don’t._

If anything, that single word made Tom angrier. Angrier because it caused his stomach to flip.

“I’m not leaving the hospital,” he gritted. “I have someone to murder first.”

Harry’s eyes widened. Tom turned on his heel. He reached for the doorknob when the notepad hit him in the back. Furious, Tom spun around.

“ _Stop_ throwing things at me!”

**_No!_ **

“She tortured you!” Tom raged. “Do _not_ get in my way on this.” And he slammed the door, blocking out the sight of Harry’s stunned face.

* * *

For the rest of the day, Tom kept Umbridge in the corner of his eye, waiting for an opportunity, but she never wandered off on her own, always sandwiched between the Black sisters. Dinner was just the same.

“Will you be staying the night, Madam Umbridge?” Narcissa asked.

“Yes, I think I will.”

“I heard you had an exciting tour,” Narcissa went on, pouring a large measure of wine into Umbridge’s glass.

“I always miss the beatings,” said Draco, sulkily spearing a potato.

As the dinner plates were removed and Umbridge yawned widely, Tom was poised and ready. Without anyone noticing, he slipped his steak knife up the sleeve of his dinner jacket.

“May we tempt you with some cordial, Madam Umbridge?” Lucius asked.

“You are sweet, Lucius, but I must decline. I’m awfully tired. I’ll turn in.”

“I was going to do the same,” said Tom promptly. “I’ll walk with—”

But just as he was making to stand, the servant from before lost hold of her decanter and spilled wine done Tom’s front.

“Hannah!” Bella shrieked. “You stupid girl! Look what you’ve done!”

“I am so sorry, sir,” Hannah cried.

“It’s no bother,” said Tom hastily.

“No! Let me help you.”

Tom found himself surrounded as Bella and Narcissa and the girl, still sprouting apologies, attempted to mop him up.

“You must take these off at once,” Bella was saying. “They will stain horribly.”

Furious, Tom had no other option but to leave the chamber. He excused himself, storming up the staircase to his bedroom. No matter. He would wait until everyone had fallen asleep and sneak into her room and stab her there.

Except … he didn’t know which room Bella had set aside for Umbridge. Yanking off his tie, Tom burst into his chamber.

He jerked to a stop.

Harry was there, sitting on the edge of Tom’s bed. He brandished Tom a half wince, half smile.

“What are you doing in here?” Tom shut the door with a snap.

Harry’s eyes roved over Tom’s wine-stained front. He looked close to laughing.

 ** _Stopping you._** **_Hannah did a good job._**

Tom was incensed. “ _You_ did this?”

 ** _I told her to make sure you didn’t get alone with Umbridge,_** Harry replied, grinning wider, but then he inhaled sharply; his eyes squeezed shut, shoulders tensing.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” said Tom. Tossing his tie to the floor, he walked to the bed, inspecting Harry’s back. Purple and black had joined the red. Yellow and green would soon follow. Tom imagined it would take days before he’d be able to put a shirt back on. Macnair had enthusiastically fulfilled his task.

**_I’m staying here._ **

“You are doing no such thing.” He shouldn’t have stormed out on Harry when he had; the welts required bandaging. The last thing he needed was for Harry to get an infection.

 ** _I’m not letting you out of my sight,_** Harry signed.

“You do not control me, Potter,” Tom hissed in his face. “I can kill whomever I like.”

Harry didn’t so much as flinch. His movements were slow and sharp.

**_Do that and we’re done._ **

Tom stiffened. “You’re bluffing.”

**_Try me._ **

Tom ground his jaw. He straightened, needing distance between his twitching fingers and Harry’s neck.

“Why in the world,” he gritted, trying desperately to remain calm, “are you so set on protecting that woman?”

**_I’m not protecting her. I’m protecting you. You’re not a murderer any more._ **

Tom released a wild laugh. “Oh, I’m not?”

 ** _No,_** Harry replied, eyes hard. **_You’re not._**

“And you’re going to stop me?” Tom’s lips transformed into a sneer. “You can hardly stand, boy.”

Harry crossed his arms and never before had Tom found his silence more unnerving.

“I don’t care if you don’t come back for me,” Tom snapped. “In fact, these _Lives_ are nothing but an irritation! I’ll be happy to be done with you.”

Harry still made no move to sign, just sitting and staring.

“You’re the one who can’t move on!” Tom stormed. “ _You’re_ the one who can’t let _me_ go! You’re the — for fuck’s sake, Potter, stop it! Stop looking at me like you—” Tom cut himself off. He’d been about to say _care_.

In reply, Harry’s eyes grew impossibly soft.

“ _Curse you to your grave_ ,” Tom snarled. He pulled off his soiled dinner jacket and threw it to the ground. The knife clattered free from the sleeve.

**_You won’t kill her?_ **

“I won’t kill her,” Tom gritted.

Harry’s smile was iridescent and it made Tom’s stomach flutter worse than ever. Feeling sick, he turned his back on the sight. He removed his wine-stained shirt, digging about in the heavy, oak wardrobe for another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean no disrespect to the Deaf Community. I’ve chosen to use the word mute to describe Harry’s silence instead of the preferred identification of Deaf. I did this for clarity: Harry can hear, but cannot speak.


	2. Did You Get Mugged?

Tom caught a whiff of wormwood and he knew Harry had joined him. He hadn’t noticed the sage-like scent that lingered on Harry’s skin, in his hair, until now. Had he always smelled this way or was it simply due to the clipping and tending of the herb patch for Severus’ tinctures?

As he removed the stethoscope from his current patient’s chest (Colin Creevey), Tom glanced over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway of the office, Harry flashed a smile.

“Hiya Harry!” said Colin brightly, also spotting Harry.

 ** _Hey Colin,_** Harry replied.

“All done, Mr. Creevey.”

Tom stepped back from the examination table, giving him room to jump down. The boy left the room, brandishing Harry a glowing smile. It wasn’t the first time Tom had come into contact with Creevey. He had been much older — 23, 24 — during the French sewer episode. In that Life, Creevey had towered over Harry, nearly even towered over Tom.

Harry entered the office and closed the door behind him.

 ** _Well?_** he asked. 

“There’s nothing.”

Harry didn’t believe him.

**_Something’s going on! Malcolm said —_ **

“Yes, yes,” said Tom irritably. “No need to remind me.”

A twitchy boy named Malcolm Baddock had used up a great deal of Tom’s patience earlier that week. A drug addict, Tom had been amazed that out of everyone at the hospital, he had been the best eyewitness Harry had managed to drum up.

“Been here since I was fourteen, no thanks to my good-for-nothing parents. You … you don’t happen to have any…”

“No,” Tom had said shortly. “I don’t have any opium.”

Baddock’s face fell.

“But I have cigarettes,” said Tom heavily at Harry’s not-so-subtle nudge.

Baddock brightened instantly.

“Thanks, Doc!” As Baddock enthusiastically lit one up, Harry signed, **_Tell him what you told me._**

“Well …” Baddock licked his chapped lips, looking left and right though they were quite alone in the pantry. “Doctor Malfoy —” He broke off, casting Tom a suspicious look. He edged closer to Harry and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “You sure he’s okay?”

Harry nodded.

“But he’s a doctor,” Baddock hissed.

**_He wants to help._ **

“Actually,” Tom began, but Harry cut him off with a warning glare.

Baddock didn’t catch the death stare Harry had sent Tom’s way, too busy checking for spies.

“Well,” he finally began, “Doctor Malfoy _claimed_ they got sick.”

“Claimed who got sick?”

“Lee and Marcus and Barty—”

“Barty?” Tom interrupted sharply. “Barty Crouch Junior?”

Taking a drag, Baddock nodded. “Knew him?”

Tom shared a look with Harry. “Once upon a time. Go on.”

“The thing is, I was mates with Marcus. He wasn’t sick. I know he wasn’t. He was fit enough to hoist Mark up by his ankles.” He snickered, smoke puffing through his teeth. “Did I ever tell you about that?” he asked Harry. “Had him swinging in the tree like one of those … those …” He snapped his fingers, searching for the right word.

“Piñatas?” Tom supplied.

“Yeah!” Baddock slapped his thigh. “Squealed like a pig!”

Harry looked disgusted.

“So he was fit enough to do this and yet took ill a few hours later?” Tom asked.

Wiping tears of merriment from his eyes, Baddock nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah. He didn’t show at dinner — Marcus, Lee, Barty — none of ’em. Nurse Andromeda said it came on all of a sudden. Tuberculosis, she said. They moved them to a special ward in case of it spreading.”

And all the humor suddenly left Baddock.

“About two days later, I was asleep in bed when someone shook me awake. It was Marcus. Bloke looked like the walking dead. Wasted away. White as a sheet. There was blood all down his shirt. He kept saying —” Baddock swallowed and took a hasty inhale of smoke, fingers trembling slightly. “He said, ‘ _They’re killing us. They’re killing us._ ’ All hoarse like that. Mr. Snape and Doctor Malfoy came running in then. Told me Marcus was delirious and took him back to the Closed Ward. The next day, he was dead.”

“And the others? Did they also die?”

Baddock had nodded. “Couple days later. They’re buried on the hill along with everyone else that dies here, unless families want the bodies, of course.” He had then crushed his cigarette beneath the toe of his shoe and muttered darkly, “Not that many do.”

Like the smoke from Baddock’s cigarette, the memory faded away. Though days had passed since Harry had dragged him into the pantry to listen to Baddock’s account, Tom’s opinion on the matter had not changed.

“Baddock’s an addict,” Tom said flatly, tossing the stethoscope onto a side metal table with a clatter. “You can’t trust addicts. Did the French sewers not teach you anything?”

 ** _He wasn’t lying,_** Harry insisted. ** _You_ know _he wasn’t lying._**

Leaning against the examination table, Tom crossed his arms, unmoved. “Why is it so difficult for you to believe they were simply ill?”

Harry ignored his question, firing out one of his own.

**_What about the blood?_ **

“Marcus might have cut himself,” said Tom with a shrug. “Or they could have been attempting to treat him by bloodletting. And, if that was the case, and he was delirious, he might honestly have believed they were attempting to murder him.”

Harry released a silent yet obvious scream of frustration.

**_Malfoy’s been tailing Colin for_ days _. And last night, I saw Malfoy lurking outside our wing. He_ never _comes down there. He’s up to something! They all are!_**

“Just because you don’t like them doesn’t mean they’re cooking their patients in pies,” said Tom.

 ** _What about the argument?_** Harry demanded, signing like a swordsman who’d landed a killing blow. **_Bellatrix and Andromeda were talking about_ you _._**

Exasperated, Tom rubbed his eyes. Since witnessing the whispered row between Bella and her sister late last week, Harry had been bringing it up relentlessly.

“Andromeda’s probably against the staff sleeping together,” he replied. “The only nefarious thing Bella’s done is attempt to seduce me into her bed.”

The wind vanished from Harry’s sails. **_What?_**

“It’s nothing new.” Salazar, he was sick of playing doctor. This was by far the most boring Life he’d experienced yet. When the only drama in weeks was the neighboring pig farmer accusing the boys of stealing a hog, Tom should have cut his loses then and there. “I know you like fixing things, but Harry, there’s _nothing to fix here_. It’s time to go.”

Harry glared moodily at his shoes, jaws clamped tight and Tom knew he’d done it. He’d _finally_ won. He pushed off from the examination table, suddenly full of energy.

“ _Excellent!_ Now it’s going to be tricky, but I’ve figured out a way to sneak you out. Meet me by that still life of the pomegranates at midnight. The one that’s practically a heart bleeding all over the table.”

 ** _Tonight?_** said Harry, alarmed.

“Yes, Harry,” said Tom firmly. “ _Tonight._ ”

**_What about the gate? The dogs?_ **

“We won’t be going through the gate.”

Harry looked perplexed and it was such a charming expression.

“I have one word for you.” Tom leaned close and whispered in his ear, “Tunnels.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Lucius told me about them while we were playing checkers,” Tom explained.

**_You play checkers?_ **

“I’m better at poker,” Tom replied and Harry’s eyebrows rose even further. “He told me that before this hospital was rechristened St Brutus’ Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys it was a hot spot for squire’s daughters when they became pregnant out of wedlock. They would be shepherded through an underground tunnel and kept in a private ward. That ward is now where Severus’ laboratory is. All we need to do is sneak into the laboratory, find the tunnel and escape.”

**_The laboratory’s always locked._ **

“I’ll take care of it,” said Tom. “Just be at that painting.”

* * *

The day ticked onward and Tom kept a watchful eye on Harry. As he tended the orange trees in the hothouses, as he mopped the floors and hung the laundry, Tom stood in the periphery. If Harry called him out, Tom already had a statement in place.

_I’m making sure you don’t do anything stupid._

Which was a sliver of the truth.

 _Hair ruffled in a sudden breeze, skin luminous in the sun …_ Why hadn’t anyone painted Harry? In all these Lives why did painters waste their time on landscapes and fruit bowls when there was _Harry Potter_ in their midst? He would have to learn the skill himself, Tom realized, and then he could spread Harry out on cushions; prop him up on a stool, set him by a window, and spend hours capturing the endless subtleties of his smile.

Harry bent over his hamper to pull out another sheet and Tom’s heart skittered at the change in view. As if he could hear the organ’s frantic beats, Harry glanced over his shoulder and spotted him. A flush spread over Tom’s cheekbones and he quickly pretended to riffle through a patient’s file. When he looked back up, Harry had gone.

Tom straightened like a hound sensing a rabbit. He stormed out from under the shade of the veranda, looking left and right for Harry, and instead, nearly trampled Creevey.

“Oof! Sorry, sir!” Creevey apologized, even though it was Tom who had barreled into him.

“Did you see where Harry went off to, Colin?”

“To the kitchen, sir. It’s past four.”

So it was. Tom had lost track of the time. Harry washed dishes while the cooking crew prepared meals. Tom nodded his thanks and stepped aside, letting Creevey carry his empty hamper into the hospital. He, too, made to turn in, but a figure half-hidden behind the trunk of a sprawling walnut caught his notice. It was Andromeda and she was waving at him. Curious, Tom strode across the lawn, past the flapping sheets and linens.

“I need to speak with you, Doctor Riddle,” Andromeda whispered the moment he entered the tree’s deep shadow.

“What about?”

She looked nervously around the courtyard, but they were quite alone.

“You must leave the hospital.”

Tom blinked. Twice. “And why is that, Andromeda?”

“It is not safe.”

“Not safe how?”

It was clear that she did not want to disclose the details. She gripped Tom’s wrist, her brown eyes pleading.

“ _Please_ , Tom. You _must_ go. My sister … she intends for you to never leave.”

In other circumstances, Tom would have found the prospect of remaining at the hospital chill worthy, but instead, he found Andromeda’s warning anti-climatic.

“Are you against my employment, Andromeda?” he asked.

“It isn’t that! You don’t understand. My sisters, the staff — we’re —” She broke off sharply, looking at something past Tom’s shoulder. He turned. Severus stood just on the edge of the pool of shade cast by the tree’s thick branches. He wore a wide-brimmed hat that made him look forbiddingly Puritan. His glare was frigid.

“Pardon the interruption, but I am in need of your assistance, Andromeda. Excuse us, Doctor Riddle.”

Andromeda had no choice but to follow Severus, but as she passed Tom, she gave him such a terrified look that it made Tom pause. Frowning, he watched them go. 

* * *

When next he saw Andromeda, she behaved as if she hadn’t said or done anything peculiar. Dinner marched along as usual with mindless chitchat. How they all dulled him. Had they always dulled him or, like the smell that lingered around Harry’s shoulders, did it merely take a certain Life for him to realize the truth he’d always known.

As they tucked into sausages, Tom noticed that the table’s chatter was slightly different from the nights before it. There was … excitement in the room; an energy barely kept at bay. The dishes were consumed at a faster rate, as if the Malfoys and Blacks wished the meal over. For once, Severus was not present, attending to a tricky decoction. 

“There is a matter I wish to speak with you,” said Bella, turning to him. “Would you mind joining me for a private word?”

Andromeda kept her eyes downcast, but everyone else’s gazes flickered up to Tom. Draco shared a poorly disguised smile with his parents.

Tom set down his napkin. “Of course.”

They both rose from the table and left the chamber, leaving the rest behind.

“Forgive me,” Tom began, striding through the corridors beside her, “but I could not help but notice excitement in the air. Is the hospital planning something?”

“Yes,” Bella replied simply. They moved up a stairwell and down a gas-lit hall. She opened a door. He stepped into a grand bedchamber and he knew instantly that it belonged to Bella. She moved to a wine cabinet. “May I tempt you?”

Amused, Tom nodded.

She poured two glasses of blood-red wine.

“Here you are,” she said, placing the glass in his hand.

“Are we having another inspection?” Tom asked.

Bella laughed. “Nothing like that. Umbridge won’t be back for another year, thank God. No, we’re having a family celebration.”

“A celebration for what?”

“For being alive.” And she laughed again. “I’m being awful. Forgive me. Our parties are strictly private and by invitation only.”

“Are you inviting me, Bella?”

She took the wine glass from his hand and set it on a side table. Looking up through thick eyelashes, she answered, “With enthusiasm.”

Her hand slid behind his neck, drawing him down to her lips. Tom let her. He’d never kissed anyone. He’d never been interested in the exchange of spit, but for the first time he was curious and it wasn’t as revolting as he’d imagined it to be. As Bella pushed him down upon the bed, climbing into his lap, her black, satin skirts pooling around him, kissing him deeper, Tom wondered if kissing Harry would be the same.

He doubted it. Bella was all tongue, but Harry, he imagined, would be lips. Lips that hesitated, teasing to be captured. Bella’s mouth left his, traveling to the side of his neck. He didn’t mind this either, until sharp teeth grazed his skin.

Oh.

_Oh._

He took control, grabbing her wrists and pinning her to the bed. Bella’s smile broadened, revealing two fangs.

“You’re vampires,” said Tom. Salazar, he’d been an idiot. “Am I your next meal?”

“I wanted that initially,” Bella admitted, “but you are simply far too” — she licked her lips — “special to eat. I want you to join us.”

So that was what Andromeda’s warning had been about.

“Do you kill the patients?”

“No one cares about the boys who are placed here,” said Bella.

“But boys _have_ gone missing?”

“We are discreet. We take two or three every few months, specifically boys who have no ties to the outside. Orphans and the like. I’ve chosen one for you that I think you will particularly enjoy.”

The way her eyes gleamed made Tom’s heart speed.

“Harry?”

“His family hates him. Believe me, no one will come knocking on our door in regards to _him_. And you took such an interest … Trust me, the first bite tastes the sweetest.”

“And where does the ceremony take place?”

Bella sat up, her ivory skin flushed. “Does that mean you’re interested?”

“Very much so.”

Her fangs flashed in the gas lamps.

“Follow me.”

**oOo**

“I’m _starving_.”

“We wait for your aunt.”

“Why do we have to wait? We haven’t before! All I’ve had for months is pig’s blood. I _hate_ pig’s blood.”

Harry felt a warm breath against his throat and then he heard a cry of pain.

“Dad!”

“ _We wait for your aunt_ ,” the second voice repeated.

Harry cracked open his eyes. He felt drugged, his head aching, his limbs heavy. The room swirled around him, though he was sure he wasn’t moving. Draco and Mr. Malfoy stood beside him and Draco, looking sour, was ruefully rubbing his ear as if Mr. Malfoy had grabbed him by it and yanked him away.

More faces appeared over Harry — Snape, Andromeda, Mrs. Malfoy.

Mr. Malfoy set the cane he always carried against a table as Snape picked up Harry’s limp wrist, checking his pulse.

“Don’t think about doing anything stupid like running away,” Mr. Malfoy said to Harry. He lifted a bottle from the table, holding it for Harry to see, and gave it a little shake. “I’ll be happy to put you under again.”

Head swimming, Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of what was happening, but his brain was slow and unresponsive.

“Don’t Dad,” said Draco. “I like it when they’re wriggly.”

A horrible sucking sound reached Harry’s ears and Mrs. Malfoy’s voice was like a pistol.

“ _Macnair!_ ”

“That’s not fair!” Draco raged.

Mr. Malfoy jumped on Macnair and they wrestled. Harry blinked hard. He was lying on a cot like the ones in the Care Ward and there were others rolled up beside his. On the closest one to him was Colin, his eyes glazed. He was struggling to breathe, his throat drenched in blood.

“Both of you, stop this instant!” Snape shouted.

Mr. Malfoy released Macnair.

“That is enough,” seethed Mrs. Malfoy. “We will all get our fill when Bella arrives.”

“I’m not waiting,” Macnair snarled. “Last I heard, this was a partnership. If I want to eat, I’m going to eat.”

“The last time you decided to sneak a snack, that boy Marcus escaped,” Mrs. Malfoy reminded him in a dangerous voice. “We all wait until everyone is present. That’s the rule. If you don’t like it, by all means, leave. See how long you last on the streets before you’re found out and staked through the heart.”

Macnair looked livid.

“I thought not,” said Mrs. Malfoy. “Now put pressure on his neck. His blood’s valu—”

WHACK!

Distracted by Macnair, Mr. Malfoy had left his cane propped against the table next to Harry’s cot. Harry grabbed it and swung it with all his might, hitting Narcissa Malfoy on the head. She fell like stone.

“Narcissa!” Mr. Malfoy screamed.

“Bastard!” Draco roared. He dove for Harry, but was forced to jump back as the cane sailed within inches of his face. Snape and Andromeda retreated as Harry whipped the cane around him.

“Get him!” Mr. Malfoy shouted, crouched over his wife.

Harry scrambled off the cot, but his legs were numb. He crashed to the floor. As Draco and Macnair rushed him, Harry pushed the cot hard. It rolled on its wheels into them, but Snape dodged it. Harry swung the cane, trying to keep them back—

From the shadows, Andromeda rushed forward. She picked up a great, wide bowl from the operation table and brought it down on Snape’s head. As Draco and Macnair stared at Andromeda, dumbfounded, she turned to Harry.

“Run, Harry! RUN!”

Harry jerked into action. Using the cane, he lurched through a door as Andromeda fought off the others. Another clang told him her bowl had struck again. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t recognize this strip of dark corridor, lit torches sputtering soot. 

_The laboratory_ , he realized. It was the one place no one was ever allowed. Limping, he ran as quick as he could, but his legs were still half asleep, one dragging along behind him. Looking over his shoulder to see if anyone followed, he collided into a wall and fell flat on his face. Speeding footsteps made his heart freeze in his chest. He gripped the cane, rolled onto his back and readied to swing—

“Harry!”

It was Tom. Harry tried to sign, but Tom grabbed his arms, hauling him to his feet.

 _Colin,_ he mouthed. _They have Colin._

But Tom ignored him. He took Harry’s hand in a stranglehold and wrenched him back into a run.

No! They couldn’t leave Colin. He was dying.

Harry dug in his heels and Tom whipped around, a snarl on his lips, but his eyes widened; he yanked Harry behind him, shielding him from—

“I am so disappointed.”

Bellatrix stood at the end of the corridor. Framed in torch-light, she looked on fire. A red bruise was livid on the side of her face. Her hair was tousled. She lifted an arm, pointing a revolver at Tom’s chest. Tom shoved Harry to the side as the gun went off. They dove; the bullet pinged off the wall, missing them by inches. Sweating hand clamped in Tom’s, they sprinted down another grimy corridor. It reminded Harry of the sewers. Poor Colin. That Life hadn’t ended well for him, either.

BANG.

Harry flinched and his lifeless, heavy feet tripped over themselves. He fell again.

“Get up!” Tom seethed. “Get up, you useless—”

The third shot sounded and Tom jerked backward. On the ground he grunted as if punched, his hands clutching his leg. Harry crawled to him; he reached for him, but Tom shoved him away.

“ _Go_ ,” he hissed. “Get out of here.”

Furious, Harry punched him in the shoulder.

**_No!_ **

Tom looked taken aback. As the click-clack of Bellatrix’s shoes drew nearer, Harry helped Tom get back on his feet. Bellatrix stepped before them, studying them. 

“Is there no way I can change your mind?” Bellatrix asked.

“Afraid not,” Tom replied.

“Pity. We could have had such fun.”

The pistol glinted in the torches and for a breath — just the beat of a second — Harry felt Tom’s arm tighten around him, clutching the back of his shirt, but before Tom could push him away, Harry sidestepped in front of Tom, shielding him from Bellatrix’s gun.

She pulled the trigger.

**oOo**

Gunpowder.

Blood.

Pain.

Pain.

Pain.

Burned. Shredded. Stitched together. Burned. Shredded. Stitched together. Burned…

Quiet.

Still.

Empty.

Tom blinked. His eyes took a moment to adjust to low lighting. Soft, murmuring voices drifted around him. He stood before a glass cage that contained an enormous snake. Nagini. Knowing who he would find, Tom turned and there, standing next to him, was Harry.

“Hello.”

Tom’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth. “Hello.”

“Welcome to Minsk,” said Harry cheerfully. “Sorry it took so long. Want to get a coffee?”

Tom was more dazed than usual. Needing time to realign to the swift change from torture to peace, he nodded. Smiling, Harry led him through the dimly lit building, passing more glass cages.

“I take it this is a zoo?” Tom asked.

“Yep. Took me forever to track down the right one.”

They left the reptile house, stepping out into bright, cold sunlight. Tom shivered. Harry noticed.

“Here.” He passed him the woolen coat he’d been carrying. Tom pulled it on and wormwood filled his nostrils.

They settled in a cafe’s corner table. Harry ordered them both coffees and a slice of almond cake to share. Tom knew they were in a brand new Life, but to him St. Brutus felt like seconds ago. Harry wasn’t a teenager anymore. Late twenties, perhaps. His glasses were square, dark brown frames and he was well dressed, his jacket and trousers tailored to fit. He looked healthy. Across the table, he radiated energy. Tom couldn’t remember the last time Harry had appeared so happy to meet him. Usually he brought him into these Lives with rigid shoulders and grim resolution.

“You’re excited,” Tom observed.

“You’re gonna _love_ this.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed over his coffee cup.

“I know the last Life didn’t work out very well—”

“Yes,” said Tom, setting his cup down a little harder than necessary, “let’s talk about that. You need reminding of the ground rules.”

“Ground rules?”

“Yes,” Tom said sharply. “I told you to leave. I told you to run.”

“Bellatrix were going to kill you.”

“ _Bella couldn’t have killed me_ ,” Tom hissed, furious. “No one can kill me. I die when _you_ die. Remember?”

“Of course I re—”

“It seems to me that you’ve forgotten.”

“Tom, they were going to drain you dry,” said Harry, speaking as if Tom was dimwitted. “I don’t think that would have been nice to experience.”

“So you decided to get yourself killed in order to save me from that? I would have been _fine._ ” 

“I really don’t think you would have.”

Livid, Tom ground his jaw and he suddenly became aware that they were no longer alone at their table. A wide-eyed waitress stood before them.

“Would you like another coffee?” she asked.

“Yes,” Tom snapped.

The woman took his empty cup and departed swiftly and Tom leaned over their table, picking up their conversation as if it had never been interrupted.

“When I tell you to leave me, _you leave me_. Is that understood?”

“So you’d prefer to be a bloodless husk?”

“A bloodless husk until a blood transfusion. _Think, Harry!_ Salazar, you never _think_.”

“And how _exactly_ was I supposed to manage that?” Harry asked. “Help me with the details.”

Tom’s hands turned to fists under the table.

“Let me see, let me see …” Harry tapped his chin as Tom sat in heated silence. “I somehow escape, which to me seems pretty far-fetched as I’d been drugged and couldn’t really walk, but hey, we’re being hypothetical. After _miraculously_ escaping, I sneak back in, find where they dumped your body, wheel you out without anyone seeing me, find a doctor who’s willing to give you a blood transfusion because ‘Don’t worry! I know he looks like a bloodless corpse now, but pump him full and he’ll be great in the morning!’ Nope. Sorry. Don’t see it.” And he ate a bite of cake.

Tom’s jaw clenched.

The waitress returned with a fresh cup, but Tom had lost his appetite.

“I’m boarding a flight to London in an hour,” Harry informed him. He pulled an envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table. “Cash and documentation as well as a boarding pass if you want to come along.”

Tom’s lips barely moved. “I do not need your help.”

“I know—”

“I do not need your company.”

“I know—”

“Then why the fuck do you keep doing this?” Tom snarled.

It was disturbing how swiftly Harry could turn serious. He met Tom’s gaze head on. “You know why.”

Rage pounded through Tom’s veins, making his blood boil.

Without a word, Harry stood, strode to the counter, paid for their coffees and left the cafe, the bell tinkling as the door swung open and shut.

Beneath the table, Tom’s fingers dug into his thighs. He still wore Harry’s overcoat. At the realization, he jumped to his feet and snatched it off. Manic, teeth bared, he dug into the stitching, ripping it open.

He hated him. He hated him. _He hated him._

The coat snagged on a chair and sent it toppling. It slammed onto the floor and Tom paused long enough in his destruction to notice the cafe’s inhabitants frozen in place, staring at him. Tom yanked the coat free from the chair, snatched up the envelope from the table and stormed from the shop. It was too cold to go without it and he furiously shouldered it back on, grimacing as wormwood curled around him like an old friend.

* * *

The Minsk National Airport was thick with Muggles. This Life couldn’t have been more different from their previous one. Technology screamed and flashed at Tom from every corner. Flat screen televisions, escalators, walkie talkies crackling on security guards’ hips. Tom’s crumpled up boarding pass told him where to go and he plowed his way through the crowd, banging into suitcases and handbags.

“Hey — Watch it!”

Tom faced the Muggle. The man quelled under his ice-cold glare, snatched up the briefcase Tom had knocked from his hand when they’d collided, and scurried away. If he had his wand, he would have cast a killing blow; if he had a gun, he would have put a bullet in his back. Tom continued onward, forcing the Muggles to sidestep from his path.

And suddenly, like the parting of the sea, the crowd shifted and there he was. Harry turned just at that exact moment and saw Tom. He looked genuinely surprised and then he smiled. Tom could have sworn that the airport brightened.

“You came,” he said when Tom reached him. “I didn’t think you would.”

Tom grunted in reply, stuffing his fists into the coat’s pockets.

“Hey—” Harry took in the state of his coat. “What happened? Did you get mugged?”

“No,” said Tom shortly.

“Oh.”

Harry bit back another grin.

Tom scowled.

“I will walk right back out of here,” he warned.

“I know.” Harry beamed and it was like standing next to a crackling fire on a winter’s day. It was like downing an entire pint of butterbeer. Warmth spread all the way down to Tom’s toes. “I’m happy you’re here.”

Tom grimaced as if Harry had said something disgusting. The family before them moved on and Harry stepped up to the baggage check counter, hoisting up a carryall. With Harry’s back to him, Tom let his expression finally soften.

 _Honestly, Harry. Where else would I be?_

* * *

On the flight to London, Harry got Tom up to speed. It was October 24, 2006.

“Is there—”

“No. Sorry.”

“Why is there _never_ any magic?” Tom cursed.

Harry shrugged. “This is your party, not mine.”

“And what do you mean by _that_?” asked Tom testily.

“Nothing.”

“Harry,” Tom ground.

“Forget I said anything. It’s not important.”

“You think _God_ is punishing me?” Tom sneered.

“No, Tom. I don’t think God is punishing you. I think you do a bang up job in that regard all by yourself. What I think is maybe the reason you’re never given magic is because you abused it.”

A full second of silence passed.

“You,” said Tom flatly, “are a moron.”

Unruffled, Harry shrugged.

“Since we’re exploring this theory,” said Tom, “then why do _you_ not have magic, Mr. Savior?”

With a crackle, Harry opened his bag of nuts and popped one into his mouth.

“Like I said,” Harry repeated, “it’s your party. Not mine. Peanut?”

Tom crossed his arms, studying the man beside him.

“Now I see.”

“See what?” Harry asked, fishing out another nut.

“Your defects. The inability to speak. Insomnia. _You’re_ not supposed to be here.”

Harry stiffened and for the first time in far too long, Tom felt that he had the upper hand.

“Maybe the lack of magic is as much your fault as it is mine,” said Tom with satisfaction.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Tom breathed, utilizing their close proximity to dominate, his height gifting him the ability to tower over Harry and to his immense delight, Harry’s Adam apple bobbed. “The only reason any of this is happening at all is because of _you_. _You_ seek me out. Again and again and again. _You_ bring me back. This isn’t my party at all. It’s _yours_.”

There was no denying the tension in Harry now and relishing the achievement, Tom pressed even closer, invading Harry’s personal space, nearly making him flatten against the window.

“So tell me, Harry, why do you keep inviting me to play?”

Tom expected an angry outburst, but Harry’s face broke into a grin. He placed a hand on Tom’s thigh as he shifted forward, moving close enough that Tom could count each of his eyelashes. Table’s turned, Tom’s entire body seized up, blood pounding in his ears. Cheerfully, Harry leaned around him, addressing a passing flight attendant.

“Could we get some gin and tonics?”

* * *

The plane touched down and as the warning lights flickered off and passengers lumbered to their feet, pulling their luggage from overhead compartments, Harry turned to Tom and whispered, “I’m a secret agent.”

Tom paused in unbuckling his seatbelt. “Is that a metaphor or…?”

Harry laughed.

“A position’s opened up,” he explained, “in the department where I work and I want to recommend you.”

“How flattering,” said Tom dryly.

“You’ll like it. You really will.”

“You want me to be a spy?”

“You hated how dull the last Life was. There’s nothing dull about this one. It’s great! It’s like being James Bond!”

“Who?”

“Bond,” Harry repeated, staring at Tom as if he thought he was joking. “You know. 007?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“He’s a spy,” Harry explained, laughing again. “He’s the biggest fictional spy that there is. You haven’t seen any of the movies?”

“I do not watch _Muggle movies_ ,” Tom replied scathingly.

“We’re changing that.”

“No, we aren’t.”

Harry stood, a sickeningly smug smile on his face. “Yeah, we are.” He prodded Tom’s foot. “You’re blocking the way.”

“Harry, we are _not_ watching movies. Harry —” Tom was forced to stand as Harry attempted to climb over him. “Harry, are you listening to me? Harry, I mean it. _Harry._ ”

Smirking, Harry swung his carryall over his shoulder and headed down the aisle.

* * *

They took a taxi to Harry’s flat.

“Being a spy pays well,” Tom observed as Harry turned the key and let him into a high-rise apartment.

“The spare room’s through there,” said Harry, pointing to a closed door off the living room.

Tom opened it and stuck his head into a comfortable bedroom.

“I put in a washing machine so you don’t have to go down to the basement and we’re practically on the Thames. See?”

Harry pulled back the curtains from a large set of windows. The view was exquisite.

“But if you’d rather a place of your own, I found some listings I think you’d like,” Harry went on, snatching up a pad of paper with hotel addresses. “Whatever you want.”

Tom rolled the words on his tongue. “Whatever I want?”

A faint blush appeared on Harry’s face and Tom wondered what he could say, what he could do, to make that blush deepen.

“Why are you being so nice to me, Harry? I am hardly ever nice to you.”

“I’m hoping it’ll rub off.”

Tom snorted. “This will do.”

“Great!” Harry cheered. He tossed the list into the bin. “I have to run by the office. Want to come?”

“Will I get a gun?”

Harry hesitated for a half-second. “Yes.”

“Do _you_ have a gun?”

Again, Harry hesitated, but he crossed the room, swung a Van Gogh from the wall and opened a safe. He pulled out a handgun, removed the bullets and tossed it to Tom. Firearms were nothing new to Tom. Lily Potter had taught him how to shoot sleeping darts from an elephant gun when they’d all lived on that stegosaurus ranch and then, a Life later in France, Tom had possessed a Chamelot-Delvigne revolver. He had loved it. This model, however, was a glock.

“I believe you told me I couldn’t kill anymore,” said Tom, testing the gun’s weight and balance.

“We don’t aim to kill.”

 _“They_ will be.”

“True,” Harry agreed. “But that’s what makes us the good guys.”

“Sometimes you make me want to vomit.”

“Does that mean you’ll join up?” asked Harry.

“Possibly.” Tom tossed the gun back. “Who are we spying for?”

Rolling the gun between his hands, Harry hesitated for the third time and, really, Tom thought in retrospect as he sat forty minutes later in a swanky office with a banner of a phoenix hanging on the wall, he should have known all along.


	3. And That's Why You Always Buckle Up

Albus Dumbledore entered the office.

“I apologize for the wait, Mr. Riddle.”

His beard was not quite as long as it had been at Hogwarts, but his suit was the same frightful plum that he’d worn on that eventful day when he walked into Wool Orphanage and told Tom what he was.

“It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance,” said Dumbledore. “Harry has had much to say about you.”

Tom shook Dumbledore’s hand. “Nothing good, I expect.”

“On the contrary, only the opposite.”

Tom was surprised and … pleased. Unnerved by the feeling, he shook it off. One of the walls in Dumbledore’s office was solid glass, gifting them a view of the lobby and waiting area where Harry sat beside a large secretary’s desk. Tom’s eyes flicked that way and Harry gave him a thumbs up.

“Have a seat,” said Dumbledore. “May I offer you a biscuit?”

Tom took one from the tin he held out. Ginger.

“I take it you don’t just hire people, regardless of glowing endorsements?” Tom asked, sitting across the desk and crossing one leg over the other.

Dumbledore smiled. “If life could be so simple. The interview process is straight forward. We’ll test your dexterity, reflexes, ability to cope under pressure, problem solving, the like. But before we begin, I have one question for you.”

Tom ate his biscuit. “Which is?”

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. Unlike Harry, who always wore a different brand of eye ware, be them thin, round, heavy or square, Dumbledore’s pair was the same half-moon, perched on his long, crooked nose.

“Why do you wish to join the Order of the Phoenix?”

“I don’t,” Tom answered.

“And yet you are here?”

“Harry asked me to. May I have another?”

Dumbledore nodded and Tom plucked a second biscuit from the tin.

“If Harry has only been positive then I should at least do you the courtesy of balancing the scales,” said Tom. “I am a rouge. A villain. I’m the last person you would want in your organization. Harry has it in his head that he can soften me up. Woo me to the side of good.” A sneer graced Tom’s lips at the thought. “I am not good. I was never good and I never will be.”

“You and Harry have a significant history, I take it.”

“We hated each other,” Tom stated. “It was a hatred worth” — his lips twitched — “ _killing_ over.”

“And yet,” Dumbledore repeated, “you are here.”

Tom flicked cookie crumbs off his pant leg. “Things have changed recently.”

Dumbledore rested his chin on his knuckles. “Oh?”

Tom swallowed, no longer feeling quite so composed. This Life’s Dumbledore could not possibly fathom the weight of what Tom said next. He could not possibly comprehend the absurdness. The incredibleness. The utter impossibility.

“Yes,” he forced out. “Against all odds we’ve … grown fond.”

“Judging by your countenance, this disturbers you.”

“Immensely.”

**oOo**

Harry’s leg jerked up and down as he sat in the hall, waiting. Past Percy’s desk, Dumbledore and Tom were visible through the glass windows that separated Dumbledore’s office from the rest of the floor.

“I’m sure he’ll do smashing, Harry,” said Percy, typing into his computer.

Harry nodded tightly, not taking his eyes off Tom’s profile.

Footsteps traveled down the hall. “Hey, Harry. Back already?”

“Hey, Ron.”

“Did it work? Did you get him?”

Harry nodded toward Dumbledore’s office and Ron craned his neck around Percy. He whistled.

“So that’s Tom.”

“Yeah.”

“You look nervous.”

“A bit,” Harry admitted. “Just hoping Tom doesn’t attack him.”

“Why would he attack Dumbledore?” Ron asked, perplexed.

Harry was silent for a beat.

“Tom struggles with authority figures.” 

Just then, the office door opened and Dumbledore and Tom stepped out into the hall. Harry shot to his feet. They walked past. Harry tried to catch Tom’s eye, but Tom didn’t look at him. He strolled side by side with Dumbledore toward the lifts at the end of the hall.

“Don’t think you need to worry, mate,” said Ron as the lift’s doors clanged shut.

Harry exhaled and a tiny amount of tension unraveled from his shoulders.

* * *

Though initially relieved that Tom made it through his first encounter with Dumbledore without attempting to plunge a letter opener through his heart, Harry couldn’t focus all day, nerves eating him inside out. He kept sliding out of his desk, traveling down the corridor to the canteen, just to pass Dumbledore’s office to see whether they were back yet. On his tenth round, Percy didn’t even bother to wait for Harry to speak.

“No, they aren’t done yet.”

“Have—”

“No, I haven’t received official word,” said Percy in the same clipped manner as his typing fingers. “But…” His fingers stilled; he looked shiftily around the hall and whispered, “I heard he took down eight agents in two minutes. That’s got to be a record.”

Harry was buoyant. He returned to his desk, light on his feet.

**oOo**

Dumbledore threw everything at him and Tom felt a vindictive satisfaction with each test he blasted to smithereens. Harry had been right. Tom _loved_ this.

“That will do,” came Dumbledore’s voice through the speaker in the wall. Tom lowered his gun. The flickering lights stilled, revealing the targets set around the room. He smirked at the sight. Fifteen perfect shots. The door to his right opened and Dumbledore appeared.

“That was very impressive, Tom.”

“Are you satisfied or would you like to see how long I can hold my breath again?”

A smile twitched behind Dumbledore’s beard.

“That will not be necessary. You broke the record in nearly every trial.”

Tom stiffened. “ _Nearly?_ ”

There was no denying the twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes. “You came close in the driving simulation. We have another agent who lasted longer.”

“How much longer?”

“He made it out of the mountains.”

Tom’s lips thinned. _Damn mountain roads._

Dumbledore held out his hand. “Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Tom.”

A significant part of Tom couldn’t quite believe that he was contemplating this. It was tempting to deny Dumbledore’s offer, to shove it back in his face, but he would never hear the end of it from Harry. It would be a return to their early Lives when all they’d done was fight. But Harry had kept coming back. Life after Life, argument after argument, he came back, seeking out Tom’s Horcruxes and freeing him from his purgatory. Tom never said it, but he was grateful.

He could play along in Harry’s game. At least, for a while.

Tom grasped Dumbledore’s hand. “Are _you_ quite sure you want me? I’ve been very clear about my feelings toward joining.”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore simply. “I am.”

* * *

Up the lift they traveled.

“The paperwork will be sorted over the weekend,” Dumbledore told him. “You can start on Monday.”

The lift dinged, the doors opened and they were back in the lobby. The hall and offices beyond it were sparsely lit and empty. The red-haired man, a Weasley, (Tom never bothered to keep track of which was which) was not at the large secretarial desk.

Dumbledore checked his watch. “Goodness, the exam went on longer than I thought. Shall I call a car for you?”

Tom didn’t reply. He had expected Harry to be waiting for him. He had expected him to be right there, leaping to his feet as he’d done earlier, but he had gone.

At Weasley’s desk, Dumbledore put the phone back on its receiver.

“Car’s out front.”

Jaw tight, Tom exited the building the way he and Harry had come, through two wooden, double doors and down a flight of wide stone steps. Nightlife teamed around him, London’s soul waking from its daytime slumber. A shining, black car was parked on the curb. He climbed into the back seat.

“Welcome to the Order, sir! My name’s Colin Creevey.”

Oh, no.

“The head man said you’re rooming with Harry,” Creevey went on energetically.

“Yes,” said Tom.

Was he going to talk the entire way there?

Yes. Yes, he was.

The people Harry knew … Honestly, if Tom had gotten hold of the boy at eleven, Harry wouldn’t have been surrounded by such loud, irritating, chatterboxes. Tom let his head fall back against the headrest and stared out the window, watching London pass him by, Creevey’s voice drifting into the distance as his mind played a new fantasy.

What would life have been like if he had succeeded? His body back thanks to the Elixir of Life, his Death Eaters returned, and Harry … Harry had been so young back then and yet bolder and braver than men twice his age. It would have taken a great deal of effort to break him. Turn him. Control him. But he would have, Tom was sure of that.

A light drizzle began to fall and Tom’s finger followed the path of a raindrop as it slid across the window.

Harry would not have returned to Hogwarts. He would have stayed with Tom. He would have been raised under his wing. He would have been more important than any Death Eater. The Boy Who Lived, the hope of the Wizarding World, twisted into the Dark Lord’s most loyal, most deadly servant. Tom wouldn’t have let Harry out of his sight. They would have dined together, lived together, fought together, just as they did now.

“Sir? Sir?”

Blinking, Tom turned his attention to Creevey. He looked ridiculous in a driver’s hat.

“Sir,” he said again, half turned in his seat to better see Tom, “we’re here.”

So they were.

“Thank you, Creevey.”

“You can call me Colin, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Everyone does.”

Tom smiled thinly and climbed out of the car. He looked upward, locating Harry’s flat. The lights were on, the curtains drawn back.

_Warm breath against his lips, legs squeezing around his waist, fingers digging into his shoulders … Make me scream._

Tom shivered. Growing damp, he stepped under the front door’s protective cover. He pulled on the handle, but it was locked. Cursing, he found Harry’s name on the list by the door and pushed the buzzer beside it. The speaker crackled.

“Yes?”

“Let me in.”

The door unlocked and Tom entered the hotel, passing the reception desk and heading straight for the lifts. As quick as a storm exploding into life, Tom was suddenly furious, as furious as he’d been in Minsk when Harry had looked at him with eyes far too old to belong to a face so young — _You know why._

How could Harry know? Tom paced like a caged animal as the lift rose upward. It was impossible. Harry couldn’t have possibly guessed the fantasies Tom played in the corners of his mind.

 _But if he did_ , whispered a voice, _would that be so awful?_

The lift opened and, as before in the car, Tom was immobilized, lost in thought.

 _Would it?_ he wondered, pulse quickening. If Harry knew … if he wanted it … Tom didn’t mind kissing; he’d discovered that with Bella. He pictured it: walking into the flat, striding up to Harry and kissing him full on the mouth.

“Are you getting out or what?”

Tom returned to his surroundings; an irritable woman in fluffy carpet slippers glared at him. He stepped out of the lift and the doors closed on the muttering old woman. He felt dazed, as if in a dream.

What if he did it? What would happen?

At once, his mind supplied the answer. The only possible, reasonable answer.

Harry would shove him away, revolted and angry. He would leave Tom. He would never come back. His escapes from his prison cell would end. Forever. Harry didn’t know Tom’s true yearnings, for if he did their previous Life would have been their last. He only helped Tom out of pity. _You were crying._ Tom couldn’t risk his freedom. He couldn’t risk Harry turning his back on him.

The flat’s door was unlocked. Harry stood in the kitchen, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up past the elbows. An apron was tied around his waist. Two thick steaks sizzled in a skillet.

“Well?” he asked before Tom had even closed the door.

“I’m in.”

“YES!” Harry punched the air. “Not that I ever doubted you, of course,” he added hastily. “Sorry I wasn’t there when you finished, but you were taking forever.” He uncorked a bottle of wine with a _pop_. “Dinner’s nearly ready. Set the table for me?”

Tom moved to the cupboard, fishing out forks and knives, napkins and plates, his heart rate so fast he could have downed ten coffees.

“Did you like Remus’ obstacle course? I nearly got skewered when I did it.”

He could do it now. Right now. A half step; a turn; Harry’s face cupped in his hands …

“It was a welcome challenge,” Tom replied, turning in the opposite direction, the safe direction, the direction _away_ from Harry. He put plates on the table. It was situated against a broad window, overlooking the Thames. In the distance, the Tower Bridge glowed.

Harry carried the steaming skillet to the table and slid a steak onto Tom’s plate. Next came a large bowl of linguine and a crisp salad. He whipped off his apron, set the bottle of wine between them and served them both pasta.

Tom felt outside of himself. Perhaps he’d gone insane because this was madness. Complete madness.

“What number are we on?”

Sitting opposite him, Harry looked up from his food. “Number?”

“How many times have we come back?”

Harry set down his knife, thinking. “I’m not sure,” he admitted and then he chuckled. “That’s a bit unnerving.”

“When do you intend to stop?”

Harry, who had just picked up his knife again, paused in cutting his steak.

“What?”

“When do you intend to stop?” Tom repeated. “I want to know.”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” said Harry.

“You were clear that you would stop if I killed that Umbridge woman,” Tom reminded him.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Because I don’t like you killing people.”

“Except that now you’ve put me in a position where I might need to kill.”

“Except that I know you won’t.”

Like a breaking dam, Tom’s anger burst.

“ _Do not blackmail me._ ” 

“Blackmail? I’m trying to help you.”

Tom threw Harry’s words from earlier back in his face with as much venom as he could muster.

“By hoping you’ll _rub off on me_?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Pretty much.”

“What if I rub off on you?”

Harry snorted, unimpressed. “I don’t see that happening.”

“Really?” Tom breathed. “I do. Manipulating, lying, threatening—”

“When have I threatened you?”

“— twisting events to suit your needs.” Tom’s teeth were bared. “That’s _me_ , Harry.”

“Do you want me to stop?” And Harry asked the question without heat. Without emotion. A simple, clear inquiry that made Tom’s heart turn over. “Because I really just want to help you and if this isn’t, if you want me to go away, I will,” Harry went on. “This can be our last one. Just say the word.”

Tom’s voice was lost and in the silence, Harry released a heavy sigh, putting his knife and fork down on his plate. Leaning back in his chair, he looked suddenly exhausted. He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it even further.

“You’re right. I _have_ been blackmailing you. I’m sorry. Telling a wolf to be a sheep isn’t right to the wolf and it isn’t right to the sheep. If you want to go on a killing spree …” He opened his arms as if to say _who cares_?

Tom perked up. “Really?”

“No,” said Harry, taking it back as swiftly as he’d given it. “No, I didn’t mean — Forget that. Forget all of that. What I’m _trying_ to say is that I’ve been forcing this on you, but the truth is that the only way I can help you is if you _want_ help.”

“And what will this help gain me?” Tom asked.

“I don’t know. I’m winging this. I don’t really understand the afterlife. I don’t know if there’s a way to fix your situation permanently. I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to move on, but this works, doesn’t it? You’re not in pain in these Lives, right?”

Shoulders rigid, Tom nodded.

“Then maybe if you felt remorse—”

“I don’t.”

“But if you did—”

“I assure you, I don’t. I never have.”

Harry glared at him across the table.

“Do you feel remorseful that, as you sat there questioning my motives, you let our steaks get cold, our salads are wilted and the pasta’s congealed?”

Tom looked down at his plate.

“I forgot.”

“Did you?” said Harry sarcastically.

Tom picked up his fork and speared a lettuce leaf. “The dressing’s nice.”

“Thanks,” was Harry’s dry reply.

Clearing his throat, Tom cut into his steak. They finished their meal without another mention of the previous topic. They washed up; they drank more wine; they sat in opposite corners of the couch, Tom trying to take in Harry’s words as he explained the inner workings of the Order, but it was very difficult. Harry’s mouth was extremely distracting. Eventually they adjourned, Harry moving down the hall past the kitchen to his bedroom, and Tom seeking sanctuary in his.

* * *

A fresh siren blared, growing, growing … and fading. Tom ignored it, folding his paper as he searched for an article worth reading. The backseat passenger door clicked open and a blond haired boy of six clambered awkwardly inside the car with his backpack still strapped to his back. Harry shut the door behind the child before taking his place behind the wheel. Tom turned another page. 

“Is something wrong again?” Scorpius Malfoy asked.

“No,” Harry answered. “Everything’s fine.”

Tom snorted and he felt more than saw Harry’s annoyed scowl directed his way.

“It’s Grandpa, isn’t it?” Scorpius pressed.

“Everything’s fine,” Harry repeated. “I promise.”

“Nothing’s fine when you show up,” Scorpius disagreed. “When you show up it means trouble. Do we have to move again? I don’t want to! I _like_ it here.”

Tom turned another page. Was there anything worth reading in the _Daily Mail_? Harry twisted around to better address the boy and his hand came up behind Tom’s shoulder, grasping the seat. Tom kept his eyes fixed on the paper.

“I’m sorry, Scorp.”

Tom heard the boy snuffle morosely.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled.

“It’s not,” said Harry. “It’s rotten, but it’s going to get better. We’re working on it. Your mum and dad care a lot about you. They don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Mum and Dad just don’t like them,” said Scorpius tearfully.

“That’s not true,” said Harry. “I know it’s not.”

“Then why does this have to happen?” Scorpius cried. “Why can’t we all be together? Why can’t they get along?”

“Scorp, believe me, I’d hate it too,” said Harry earnestly. “But you’ve just got to remember that everyone is trying their best here. Everyone loves you, Scorp.”

Eyebrows high, Tom looked at Harry then.

“How about we stop at Fortescue’s and get a sundae?” Harry suggested.

Scorpius brightened instantly. “Okay!”

Sometimes Tom marveled at how well Harry kept up with each Life’s scenario. He bit back the reminder he longed to fling at him, that Draco Malfoy had almost _eaten_ him in the last one, and here he was, consoling Malfoy’s son. If he honestly expected Tom do such idiotic acts of good will, then they were going to be circulating Lives by the millions.

“Buckle up,” said Harry, turning back to the wheel and starting the engine.

“ _He’s_ not,” said Scorpius.

“Tom.”

Tom grunted in reply, back to scanning the paper.

“Your seat belt.”

“You drive well enough,” said Tom, turning yet another page.

“It doesn’t matter how well I drive. Put your seat belt on.”

Two full seconds passed.

“I’m not driving until you put it on.”

Exasperated, Tom looked up from his paper. “Don’t be such a—”

“A- _hem_ ,” Harry interrupted sharply as Scorpius giggled in the backseat.

“I am not wearing it,” said Tom. It was ridiculous, strapping himself in like a toddler.

“I don’t care,” Harry ground. “Put it on.”

“No.”

Harry turned off the engine.

“ _Potter._ ”

“Don’t _Potter_ me. Put it on or we’re staying put.”

“Maybe _I_ should take a turn driving,” Tom hissed.

“Except you can’t,” said Harry, “because you keep getting into fights with the examiners.”

“I don’t need a license to drive.”

“When you’re with me you do.”

Seething, Tom yanked the seat belt across his chest and snapped it into the buckle.

“Thank you.” Harry turned the key and pulled out of the school’s parking lot.

In the rear-view mirror, Scorpius rustled about in his backpack. He found what he was hunting for and disappeared behind a colorful magazine. Harry, seeing the cover, said excitedly, “That’s the Venom one!”

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose as the boy gasped in surprise, “You read Spiderman?”

“Course I do.”

“ _Salazar help me_ ,” Tom groaned. How could he possibly be attracted to that man? _How?_

“Which one’s your favorite?” Harry asked.

The boy was off, rattling on about Vultures and Green Goblins and—

Harry’s fingers touched the back of Tom’s wrist. His eyes snapped onto Harry and though he looked like he still listened attentively to Scorpius, Harry flicked his eyes at Tom and then at the rear-view mirror. Tom glanced at it and saw a silver Volvo following close behind them.

“Green Goblin, huh?” said Harry, speaking calmly, but gripping the wheel tighter. The car behind them barred down upon them. Tom covertly fished out his gun from the glove compartment. “My favorite’s Mysterio. Hey, Scorp, would you do me a favor?”

“Sure,” said the child happily.

“I need you to keep your head down, okay? Would you do that for me?”

Scorpius blinked. “What—?”

Harry jerked the steering wheel, cutting in front of an oncoming truck. Scorpius shouted, the truck blared its horn and Harry shot down Fleet Street. Tom looked back over his shoulder as tires screeched; the Volvo was in hot pursuit.

“What’s going on?” Scorpius cried. Mirroring Tom, he looked out the back window.

“Scorpius, get your head _down_!” Harry shouted just as the Volvo’s side passenger leaned out the window. Bullets blasted, hitting their Ford Anglia. Scorpius ducked, covering his head.

“Hold on!”

Harry floored the gas, speeding through a traffic stop as the light changed to red. Cars on either side skidded to a stop, but the Volvo weaved through the clogged intersection. At top speed, Harry took a hair-raising turn onto Salisbury Court on two wheels. A couple who were just about to cross the lane, jumped back. Tom checked that his glock was loaded before rolling down his window. As the Volvo came into view, charging onto Salisbury Court, he took aim.

The Volvo’s windshield cracked as Tom’s bullet made contact; it swerved, careening into a newsstand. The owner scampered out of the way just in time. Wood and magazines exploded like a bomb, but the Volvo straightened back onto the road, its headlights flashing as it charged after them.

“ _Shit._ ”

Tom faced forward again at Harry’s curse. A large moving van was backing up, closing off the end of the road. The Volvo approached, bullets punching like tiny fists. Tires squealing, Harry braked, skidding like a skater on ice as he made a perfect U-turn. They blew past the Volvo.

Back on Fleet Street, down Bride Lane. In the distance, sirens screeched.

“We’re going to die!” Scorpius cried in the backseat. “We’re going to die!”

“We are not going to—” Harry began, but just then, from out of nowhere, the Volvo returned. It plowed straight into them.

They spun like a top, crashing into a parked car. Ears ringing, Tom groaned from the whiplash. The door clicked open, Scorpius screamed and the Volvo sped away.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry swore. He was bleeding from a cut over his eye. “You okay?”

Tom nodded.

Harry put the Ford Anglia in reverse and, miraculously, the car drove, steam billowing from under its crumpled hood. They hurried after the Volvo. In the lopsided rear-view mirror, police lights flashed. They wove through traffic, barely keeping the Volvo in sight.

“They’re heading for the Thames,” said Tom as they passed a double decker bus, nearly colliding with an oncoming taxi. The Volvo appeared in sight again. It had pulled onto the sidewalk along the river and three large men were clambering into a waiting motorboat, lugging Scorpius with them.

“When I tell you to, hit the purple button,” said Harry, not taking his eyes off the boat.

“The same purple button Arthur Weasley specifically told us not to press?”

“That’s the one.”

The protective railing along the Thames grew closer. Harry gripped the wheel tighter.

“Now!”

Tom pressed the tiny button on the dash.

 _“I’ve been tinkering with a few modifications,”_ Arthur had told them. _“They’re still a bit buggy, though. Best leave them be until I get them sorted.”_

The car shuddered, vibrating so badly that Tom’s teeth rattled in his skull. Underneath the crumpled hood, the steam turned to thick clouds of smoke.

“Hold on!” Harry shouted as he hit the gas. At top speed, the car crashed through the railing; Tom’s stomach swooped as they soared through the air, diving for the water, the car quaking and grinding and … changing.

The metal frame reformed, transforming into something else. The roof peeled back like a convertible and wind whipped Tom’s hair. They hit the water with a giant splash. Tom gripped the dash as they bounded along the water. Harry let out an ecstatic whoop. The Ford Anglia was now a speedboat.

On the motorboat up ahead, the kidnappers fired, forcing Harry to weave. Tom had lost hold of his gun when they’d crashed; he retrieved it from the floorboard. A second later, one of the men jerked backward, clutching his shoulder. Tom’s next shot missed the other by a millimeter as he scrambled out of line, ducking for cover.

The phone in Harry’s pocket rang. He fished it out with one hand.

“Yeah?”

Tom could hear Ron Weasley on the other end.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Got a bit delayed.”

“Well pick up the pace,” Weasley gritted. “Malfoy’s driving me ballistic.”

“On it.”

“Are those gunshots?” Weasley asked as Tom fired off another round.

“See you in a bit!” And Harry hung up. He nodded at the line of buttons on the dash. “Shall we try the red one?”

“Why not?”

Harry slammed his hand on it. With the force of a cannon, they were both launched from the boat, their seats shooting into the air, heading straight for the motorboat. The assailants on board cried out in alarm and dove out of the way. Enormous metal spider legs unfolded from under Tom’s seat, cushioning his landing. In one fluid motion, Tom disarmed both men, shooting one in the leg and the other in the arm; their guns clattered along the deck. Harry unbuckled his seat belt and jumped out of his own spider chair. With a kick and a punch, both men dropped to the ground, unconscious.

“And that’s why you always buckle up,” said Harry.

Tom unclipped his seat belt. “You are more irritating than a splinter.”

“Aw. You know you love me.”

Tom blinked. Grinning, Harry picked up one of the assailant’s fallen guns.

“Now hold it right there, chaps.”

In unison, they spun around, aiming their guns at a tall muscular man. Fenrir Greyback stood with Scorpius clamped to his front, a gun pressed to the side of his skull. The boy looked petrified.

“This can either go the easy way,” said Greyback, “or the messy way. What’ll it be?”

“Harry!”

“Don’t worry, Scorp. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Greyback laughed and even in this Life his teeth were unnaturally sharp. “Chunk those guns overboard. Nice and slow.”

Sharing an irritated look, Tom and Harry did.

“Very good,” Greyback praised. “Now you” — he jerked his jaw at Tom and then at a bundle of rope — “tie him up.”

“I’d be delighted.”

“Seriously?" said Harry exasperated. "You’d be _delighted_?”

Tom picked up the rope and shrugged. “Habits die hard.”

“Get on with it!” Greyback barked.

Tom tied Harry’s hands behind his back.

“Nice and tight — that’s it. Now in here.”

At gunpoint they entered the boat’s helm.

“You’re steering,” Greyback informed Tom. “And you’re gonna sit there nice and quiet,” he added, kicking Harry to the ground. “Any funny business and you’ll be mopping up the kid’s brains, got me?”

Scorpius shook like a twig. Tom started the motor. “May I inquire where we’re headed?” he asked.

“No,” Greyback snapped. “And pick up the pace! This ain’t no cruise line!”

Tom increased the boat’s speed slightly.

“Who’s paying you for Scorpius, Greyback?” Harry asked from the floor.

“I told you to _shut it_ ,” Greyback growled.

“Must be someone with a large stash. You wouldn’t bother otherwise,” Harry went on. Tom glanced over his shoulder in time to see Greyback grinding his jaw and Scorpius staring at Harry as if he’d gone insane. “I know Draco and Astoria had a falling out with Lucius and Narcissa, but this is going overboard.”

“One more word and I swear I’ll—”

“Shoot Scorp? Isn’t he your payout? Don’t think Lucius and Narcissa would be too happy about their grandson being murdered.”

“It wasn’t them who hired me, you stupid ass fuck!” said Greyback. He laughed, spittle flying. “You fucks don’t know shit.”

“So someone wants to get to Draco?” Harry asked without skipping a beat. “Is this revenge for putting all those people in jail? Or maybe this is just you. Is that it, Greyback? A lot of your crew got busted when Draco spilled the beans on the family’s criminal empire.”

“S _hut up!_ ”

Greyback pointed the gun at Harry and Tom leapt into action, tackling Greyback from behind. Surprised, he released his hold on Scorpius and the boy scurried away, balling himself into a corner, trying to appear as small as possible. Wrestling on the deck, Tom grappled for the gun, trying to get it out of Greyback’s fist. It went off, nearly hitting Harry.

“GET OFF ME!” Greyback roared. “GET OFF ME, FUCKER!”

With both feet, Harry kicked Greyback in the face. He was out cold, blood dribbling out of a broken nose.

“Scorpius, are you okay?” Harry demanded.

Trembling from head to foot, Scorpius uncurled himself.

“I th-th-think so.”

“That’s great! You did great, Scorp.”

The boy looked close to passing out, but he smiled wide.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Tom got to his feet.

“Mind uniting me?” Harry asked him. “My circulation’s cutting off.”

But the sight of Harry at his feet, bound, was doing something electric to Tom’s blood.

“Tom?”

Harry was looking at him oddly and Tom felt a damnable flush rise high in his cheeks.

“You okay?” Harry asked.

“Of course I am,” said Tom brusquely.

“You just seem a little—”

“I’m fine,” Tom snapped, squatting behind Harry and seeing to the knots.

Everything was perfectly, perfectly _fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was very little that I liked about Cursed Child, but I did like Scorpius. His nerdiness was a delightful surprise. I can easily picture him being a comic book fan.


	4. It's Not Caviar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got so energized by the comments you left, you get a chapter far quicker than expected. Thanks for that.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going in.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” said Harry, exasperated. “We’ve almost made it to the front of the line. You realize we’ve been standing here for over an hour?”

“I don’t care. I’ve changed my mind.”

The ticket booth opened up as a couple moved on and Harry grabbed Tom’s arm and yanked him forward.

“Two adults for Casino Royale,” he said before Tom could argue.

The woman behind the glass handed Harry two tickets and they were swept into the cinema as the line surged forward. The building brimmed with Muggles. Tom could hardly move without banging shoulders. Harry kept a firm grip on his wrist, leading him through the throng like a parent with a wayward child.

“Are all cinemas like this?” Tom asked.

“Only on opening nights.”

Decorating the large lobby were life-sized paper cutouts of the actors. While they’d waited in line, Harry told Tom who everyone was. The chiseled blond was Bond, the hero of their story; the slender, smoky-eyed brunette was the love interest; and over by an enormous poster of the film, the villain with his ice-runs-through-my-veins death stare.

How in the world had he let Harry drag him in here?

“I’m going to get us some snacks,” said Harry, speaking louder than normal over the noisy crowd. “Go ahead and head in. Snag us some good seats.”

Tom left Harry at the Concession Stand and headed up a flight of carpeted steps, entering a darkened hall with illuminated signs tacked to the ceiling. Under the lit _Casino Royale_ was yet another line. Irritated, Tom crossed his arms and shuffled along with the rest of the chattering Muggles. Tom eventually entered the theater, found a pair of seats and draped his coat over one of them, saving it. He shot his own death stare at any Muggle who drew too close. Ten minutes later, Harry appeared, carrying a large, striped container. He spotted Tom and hurried down the row.

“These are excellent,” Harry commended. “We’re right in the middle. Hold this.”

He pushed the carton into Tom’s hand as he shouldered off his coat.

“What in the name of Merlin is this?”

“What?”

“ _This_ ,” said Tom, holding the enormous carton at arm’s length.

“Popcorn,” said Harry with a laugh. “You heat kernels until they pop open and then add salt and butter. It’s commonly eaten at the cinema. Try some.”

Tom chose two buttery puffs. Harry watched him chew.

“It’s not caviar.”

Harry laughed louder and took the popcorn back. The lights dimmed, excitement rose once more before the audience shushed themselves into silence, and the film began. Tom twisted around to watch the beam of light from the projector’s booth. Harry’s arm brushed up against his, startling him. He turned back around to see Harry setting the popcorn on the armrest between them.

As Tom adjusted to the darkness, he kept one eye on the screen and one eye on Harry. The seats were set so close together, their knees periodically touched. The theater momentarily lit up from an explosion and Tom once again looked sideways to find Harry smiling at him. 

Face heating up, Tom returned his focus to the film, refusing to look at Harry again even as their fingers bumped as they dug about for popcorn.

* * *

“How did he get the briefcase?” Tom raged ten minutes later outside the cinema. “His suit wasn’t even wet. The money was in the water, the building was collapsing — how did he get it without his suit getting wet?”

“Fishing line?” Harry suggested.

At Tom’s unimpressed scowl, Harry laughed. “Oh, come on! You liked it. I know you did.”

“It was more bearable than I thought it would be,” Tom admitted grudgingly. “Are there” — he cleared his throat delicately — “any other films you think I’d like?”

Harry’s grin was just like the one in the dark cinema, sharp and mesmerizing. If anyone had made a life sized cut out of him, people would be lined around the block.

“Loads.”

* * *

“Remind me again why _I_ have to be here?”

“It’s polite,” said Harry. “And don’t put this on me. You said you wanted to come.”

Tom chose to ignore that fact. “I have no interest in being polite,” he said instead, taking Harry’s presents so he could ring the doorbell. “If being polite means going to parties then I never want to be polite.”

“You were very polite in Colorado,” Harry rebutted. “You were so exceedingly polite during that brunch I thought you’d poisoned the sandwiches.”

“I considered it,” Tom admitted.

“Okay. I promise to never drag you to another party again.”

“I want that in writing,” said Tom as the door opened and Ron Weasley, dressed in a tacky, checkered jumper, beamed at the pair of them.

“Merry Christmas!” he cheered. “Wow, Tom,” he added, noticing the heap of packages in Tom’s arms.

“They’re not from me.” He shoved the bags and boxes into Weasley’s startled arms and pushed past him into the house. Guests were packed in like sardines, all of them employees of the Order of the Phoenix, though Tom only recognized a fraction. He squeezed his way down a tinseled hall, entering the main gathering area, decked to the ceiling with glittering lights and baubles. Tom shuddered. How the _hell_ had he said yes to this?

“Would you like to go to a get together?” Harry had asked him forty minutes earlier. “Ron and Hermione are hosting.”

Tom couldn’t recall what he’d said, though something along the lines of ‘yes’ must have escaped him. Harry had been in the shower at the time, yelling for Tom to bring him a towel because he’d forgotten one. And though steam had filled the bathroom, it was impossible _not_ to look.

“Would you like to come?” Harry had repeated, taking the towel and dripping water all over the floor, letting the bathroom door hang wide open.

Salazar, this was getting out of hand. Maybe he needed to get his own apartment after all. Just yesterday he’d entered the kitchen to find Harry wearing nothing but his boxer briefs.

“Sorry,” Harry had apologized as Tom stood rooted in place. “Let the laundry go a bit longer than I should have. I’ll be out of the way by lunch, if you need to do a load.”

From the depths of the crowd, Tom heard Harry laugh. The sound made his stomach flip.

“Hello, Tom,” said Luna Lovegood, appearing by his elbow like a conjured ghost. “We weren’t expecting you. I’m happy you came.”

“Are you?” said Tom, baffled.

“Of course,” said Lovegood cheerfully. “Everyone is.”

Tom had either lost his skill at detecting lies or the batty girl was telling the truth. She held up her drinks tray. “Would you like a—”

“No.”

Tom stormed past Lovegood, insides writhing. He found a window in a back bedroom that opened onto a fire escape and climbed onto it, breathing in the cold winter night.

“There you are.”

Tom turned as Harry, holding two punch glasses, awkwardly climbed through the window. He handed Tom one of them, clicked his glass against it and took a swallow.

He doubled up, choking.

“ _Holy crap._ ” He took Tom’s glass back, eyes streaming. “Don’t drink that.”

“Why are you out here with me?”

Rubbing his throat, eyes still watering, Harry replied, “Because I wanted to. Sorry. Did you want to be alone?”

If anyone else had asked him that, Tom would have answered yes, but …

“Wouldn’t you rather be with your friends? I imagine you’d prefer their company over mine.”

“Don’t put yourself down. You’re as much fun as they are.”

As he was inspecting the fire escape for bird droppings and cigarette butts, Harry missed Tom’s horrified expression.

“And they aren’t really _my_ friends,” Harry added. “I mean, they’re great, I love them,” he clarified, picking a spot to sit, “but the people here, the people who keep filling in these Lives, they aren't _our_ people. Have you noticed that? They’re more like reflections of the people we knew. The only real people in these Lives are you and me.”

“So you’re spending time with me because you want … real interaction?”

“I’m spending time with you because I _want_ to,” said Harry. “Christ, you can be oblivious. I _like_ spending time with you.”

Tom was speechless. He felt suddenly, intensely wrong-footed. Hoping to cover up the moment, he brushed the ground clear with his foot and joined Harry. For a moment they sat, not speaking, staring up at the starless sky. Between his knees, Tom’s clasped hands were gripped in a stranglehold, fingertips and nails digging into each other, his only release, the only outward sign that inside he quaked. 

“Merry Christmas.”

Eyebrows high, Tom looked at him. Harry held a thin, rectangular present. It was wrapped in silver and green.

“I didn’t get you anything,” Tom said without thinking.

“You don’t need to.”

Tom took it, hoping that in the light spilling from the window to their backs that Harry would not see the red crescents on his hands. He slipped his fingers under a bit of tape and pulled back the paper. He stared at the book’s cover for a full second.

“How to be a magician in ten easy steps,” he read.

Harry bumped his shoulder against Tom’s.

“Since you miss magic so much,” he said teasingly. “I looked through it. There’s actually a few good card tricks.”

Tom was silent.

“I miss it, too,” Harry admitted. “Magic.”

“You don’t seem to.”

“Maybe I’m just better at keeping my emotions to myself,” said Harry, which caused a startled laugh to escape Tom.

“The day you’re better than me at that, I’ll eat this book.”

Harry looked smug. “We’ll see.”

 _Do you know?_ Tom thought. _Do you have any idea how I picture you every night?_

Tom swallowed, crossing his arms against the cold. “I’m moving out.”

They sat so close on the fire escape that Tom felt Harry jerk.

“What?”

“I’m moving out,” Tom repeated, sounding as if he’d been planning it for weeks when it had only been seconds.

“But … why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“No. I’m just — _shit_.” Harry covered his nose, but not before Tom had seen the blood. “Goddammit,” he muttered as he rooted about in his pocket for a handkerchief.

“This makes eight times in four days.”

“Id’s no problem,” said Harry, pinching his nose.

“Maybe you should go to a — oh.”

Harry’s eyes shot at him over his bloody handkerchief.

“This is your defect,” Tom breathed, finally putting the pieces together. He’d been wondering for weeks what it could be.

“Id’s not—”

“Did you have them in your first Life?”

Harry’s glare was answer enough.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Harry shrugged, oddly morose and Tom, for the first time in his long memory, wished to lift Harry’s spirits. He returned the shoulder bump. “At least it’s not sleep walking again.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. He checked the cloth, grimaced and put it back. He glanced at Tom. “Do you wanb helb?”

“Pardon?”

“Helb.” He waved his hand at the window behind them. “Wib de abarbment.”

“No. I’ll be fine.”

Harry nodded. And though he had no idea where this desire to cheer Harry up was coming from, Tom flipped open the magic book and said lightly, “Card trick, eh?”

From the shine in Harry’s eyes, Tom knew he was grinning behind the cloth.

“Bage bibby-bibe.”

“What?”

“Bibby — gibe it.”

Tom laughed as Harry took the book from his hands and turned to the page.

* * *

The door to Dumbledore’s office banged off the wall as Tom stormed inside.

“I can’t do this!”

Dumbledore didn’t look up from his papers. “Merry Christmas to you too, Tom. There’s cocoa in the pot. And yes, you can.”

Tom paced up and down the plush carpet. He felt disheveled, wild, out of sorts — an ancient tapestry unraveling. He was shaken to his core. He’d nearly — Merlin, he’d nearly — If Granger hadn’t popped her head through the fire escape window when she had …

“I can’t,” said Tom. “I _really_ can’t.”

Dumbledore set down his pen, stood, strode to the tea service by the crackling fire, poured steaming hot chocolate into a mug, splashed a generous measure of whiskey into it, and pushed it into Tom’s hand.

“Why do you think you can’t tell him how you feel?” Dumbledore asked.

Tom stared at the man, marveling that he’d ever considered him to be intelligent.

“He’ll hate me,” Tom stated. “He’ll leave me.”

“And that upsets you?”

“Of course it—” Tom’s mouth clamped shut, shocked by the admission. He collapsed into a chair by the fireplace. It wasn’t the fear of being trapped forevermore in his purgatory that made his heart ache. It was the possibility of never seeing Harry again.

“What’s happened to me?” Tom whispered.

“I believe, Tom, that you are in love.”

A strangled, choking noise issued from Tom’s throat. “I don’t like it.”

Dumbledore chuckled. He sat in the armchair opposite.

“Are you sure Harry would hate you if you told him the truth?”

“Yes,” said Tom emphatically. “If I tell him I’ve been” — his insides curled in on themselves — “ _yearning_ for him … I told you. We have a complicated history. I — I did things to him … unforgivable things.”

“Unforgivable? Tom, I think you’re quite alone in that boat.”

Baffled, Tom stared at Dumbledore.

“From what I have observed,” the man continued, smiling benignly, “the two of you have a powerful friendship.”

“Frien—?” Tom’s tongue fumbled on the word, unable to form it.

“It has been known to happen,” said Dumbledore genially. “The choice to tell him, of course, is yours to make,” he added as Tom stared into the fire like a man lost. “Yes, there is the possibility that the truth might shatter that friendship. Love does not always triumph and friendships do not always last, but to suffer in silence … to never know what could have been?” Dumbledore looked suddenly grave. “Such silence eats away at you. What you must ask yourself, Tom, is whether or not you can live in that silence.”

Tom swallowed. A log popped.

“I need a place to stay the night,” said Tom quietly. “I can’t go back to the flat.” If he did … Merlin, if he did…

“I always keep an open room at the Victoria,” said Dumbledore. “Tell the lobby boy I sent you. They’ll look after you.”

Perhaps these Lives weren’t real after all. Perhaps he never left his purgatory and this was all a hallucination, a highly lucid dream concocted by too much torture. He and Harry — friends. He and Dumbledore — confidants. He couldn’t recall when that had happened; it simply _had_. But what was even more alarming was that he couldn’t imagine going back to the ways things used to be. So he would keep his mouth shut. He’d bite his tongue and be content to dream, dream of Harry beneath him, beside him, on top of him.

* * *

The private jet touched down and Tom looked out the window. Thick snow carpeted the landing strip.

Leaning across him to look out the window, Harry muttered, “Why couldn’t Grindelwald be hiding in the Caribbean?”

Tom’s pulse, always quick when Harry was near, tripled from the gentle pressure of Harry’s body against his.

“At least there’s enough ice around here for your nosebleeds.”

“Ha ha,” said Harry dryly.

Bundled up with luggage in tow, they departed the jet and New York’s winter blast greeted them like a knife fight. A car waited.

“Agent Potter. Agent Riddle.” Their contact glared at them from underneath a low brimmed hat.

“Mr. Moody.”

They slid into the car’s backseat. The heater, thankfully, was running. Tom felt himself begin to thaw. From the driver’s seat, Alastor Moody twisted around. His face was just as scarred and peppered as ever.

“I got you in as servers at Club Indigo. Our girl says Grindelwald’s going to show at midnight. The moment he gets the briefcase, jump him. We need him with his hands on the money, got me? We can’t hold him without the money, so you nab him—”

“When he has the money, yes, we follow,” said Tom impatiently. “We do have brains.”

Moody’s scars deepened.

“ _Constant vigilance_ ,” he growled before turning back to the steering wheel.

Tom caught Harry smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Harry quietly.

* * *

Moody drove them to a nondescript hotel and deposited them on the curb.

“I’ll be back at ten tonight to pick you up,” he said. “Don’t be late.”

The car’s tires splattered them with muddy snow as he pulled away.

The hotel was cheap. Their room consisted of a single bed and lavatory.

“Charming,” said Tom.

“Reminds me of the Leaky Cauldron,” said Harry happily. “Must be a step down from _Victoria_.”

“Significantly. And you said you didn’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

“You say _I don’t_ like you do.”

“I don’t,” Harry repeated. He set his suitcase by the bed. “I’m happy you like living at the Victoria. Really. I’m going to ask the front desk what’s good to eat around here. Want anything?”

Tom shook his head and Harry departed. Their flight had arrived at seven-ten in the morning. They had a long wait ahead of them. Tom flopped into a narrow chair beside an even narrower desk and stared out the window.

It didn’t take long before he grew bored. For entertainment, he extracted the pair of binoculars he’d bought for the trip. Most New Yorkers didn’t bother shutting their curtains, at least not the ones in their neck of the woods. Tom watched a young mother attempt to stuff her child into winter garments. By the time she was finished, he looked like an inflated penguin. He turned the binoculars upward two windows to a couple who’d been having the most terrific row for the last half hour. He was rooting for the girlfriend, hoping she’d take the carving knife and …

Oh.

Tom refocused the lenses and the couple came into sharper view as they humped energetically against the sink.

“Got bagels!”

Tom flinched, dropping the binoculars with a clatter onto the desk.

“I couldn’t decide which sounded best, so I bought the lot.” Harry plopped the heavy sack onto the desk. The smell of fresh-baked dough and pastrami hit Tom’s nose; his stomach growled. Harry fished inside the bag and passed him one. He was pink-nosed from the cold, the green of his eyes brighter than usual.

“What have you been up to?” he asked, noticing the binoculars.

“Just passing the time.”

“People watching? Any good ones?” Harry reached for the binoculars, a grin spreading, but Tom quickly snatched it up.

“No. Unless you like watching toddler temper tantrums.”

Harry winced. “I’ll pass.” He took two bagels and sat on the bed, kicking off his shoes.

Surreptitiously, Tom glanced at the couple’s window. He paused in unwrapping his bagel. _Salazar_ … how had they even gotten into that position?

“Oh, man, that’s _good_ ,” Harry moaned from the bed. “This is the best bagel I’ve ever had. Okay. This settles it. Next Life, we’re living in New York.”

Half-listing, Tom made a sound of agreement as the couple fucked so vigorously that they overbalanced and toppled out of view. Thank Merlin they weren’t renting the room underneath that flat. It would have made for an awkward breakfast.

* * *

“God, I’m bored,” Harry groaned.

“You were the one who wanted to be a spy,” Tom reminded him. He glanced at his watch. “We’re nearly there. Just forty minutes to go.” Behind him, he heard the bed creak as Harry shifted yet again, propping his feet up on the wall over the headboard, lying spread eagle on his back.

“Come on,” Harry whined. “One round.”

“No.”

“Why won’t you play with me?”

“Because I do not like Muggle trivia.”

“You’re just saying that because it’s the only thing I beat you at,” Harry grumbled.

“You beat me at sparring.”

Harry snorted. “No, I don’t. You let me win. Everyone knows it.” He rolled onto his stomach, rested his chin in his hands and asked, “Why?”

Playing for time, Tom pretended to fiddle with the focus on the binoculars. “Why what?”

“Why do you let me win?”

“I don’t.”

Tom knew Harry’s expression without turning around to see it: an exasperated roll of the eyes. The bed squeaked as Harry sat up. Next thing Tom knew, Harry was beside him.

“Let’s arm wrestle.”

“Pardon?”

“Let’s arm wrestle.”

“I’m not arm wrestling you.”

“Why not? Afraid you’ll lose for real this time?” He propped one elbow on the table. “Come on. Winner gets the bed.”

“Are you drunk? You’re acting like you’re drunk.”

Harry cocked a grin. “You haven’t seen me drunk.”

Tom put down the binoculars. “All right. If you win, you get the bed. If I win, I get you drunk.”

Harry hesitated for a split second before his grin broadened.

“You’re on.”

* * *

“I told you fuckers to not be late!” Moody raged in the doorway. “I’ve been waiting in the lobby for the last ten minutes—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry hissed, nursing his arm.

Tom sat smugly in his chair. “Seven out of seven. Does that mean I get you drunk seven times?”

“No,” said Harry sourly.

“—and you’re not even dressed!” Moody stormed. “Will you fuckers get moving, for fuck’s sake?”

“Give us five minutes,” said Harry.

Muttering darkly under his breath, Moody stomped out into the hall, slamming the door behind him. Tom removed his attire for the evening from his trunk and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Harry to change in the bedroom. When he reemerged, he found Harry dressed in the same waiter’s uniform he was in. It fit him quite well.

“We better hurry before Mad-Eye blows an artery,” said Harry.

Back into the car they filed, Moody muttering things like ‘Can’t get a decent agent these days’ and ‘Dumbledore’s going to get an earful for this’ as he drove them to a flashy and rowdy section of the city.

“Remember,” Moody began as he pulled up before Club Indigo’s enormous neon sign.

“We won’t fuck up,” Harry promised before the man could start.

“You better not,” Moody growled. “Take the entrance round back. Ask for Pansy.”

“Pansy?”

“A friend of yours?” asked Tom as Moody’s taillights vanished around the block.

“Not really. We never got on. I’m surprised I haven’t run into her before now.”

They stepped up to the club’s back door and knocked, mist rising from their mouths.

“She was in my year, but in Slytherin,” Harry explained. “She dated Draco for a while, but they split after Hogwarts. He married Astoria and had Scorpius. Isn’t it interesting how these Lives always pattern after the original? Hermione and Ron _always_ get together.”

“You and your wife haven’t.”

“She’s not _my_ Ginny,” said Harry, repeating their conversation at Christmas. “And anyway, I’m not interested.”

Tom quirked an eyebrow, studying the man beside him.

“It was a long time ago,” Harry went on, giving the door another rap. “And it was wonderful. The happiest years of my life were with her, but I’m not going to chase after them. I’m not going to try to replicate them. I know better. I know it won’t be the same.”

“You talk like a man who’s already tried,” said Tom.

Harry’s shoulders hunched, the only sign that he was growing agitated.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”

“When?”

“That space ship — the IG-80. She boarded and … well … I hadn’t seen her in ages …” He trailed off and Tom suddenly recalled entire stretches of time when Harry had vanished on the ship. He must have been with Ginny. Tom hadn’t cared, actually appreciating the separation. Back then, not murdering Harry had been an hourly test of willpower.

“But I knew it wasn’t right,” Harry continued, keeping his eyes on the door and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I stopped it before it could really go anywhere.”

Tom frowned at him, completely perplexed. “But if you wanted her, why not take her?”

Harry’s eyes left the door, fixing upon Tom.

“As much as you say these people aren’t the same as the originals,” said Tom, “they are still close enough. Do you think you’re committing some sort of sin if you take what you want?”

“No.”

“Then why?” Tom pressed.

“Because it hurt too much.”

The door opened and a young woman with a 1920’s styled bob and a glittering peacock dressing gown was on the other side.

“Are you Potter?” she asked, looking at Tom.

“God no,” Tom answered.

“I am,” said Harry, stepping forward. “You must be Pansy.”

Her eyes traveled up and down Harry.

“Come in. Quick.”

They entered a storage area and followed her down a narrow, cluttered hall, entering an even narrower and messier dressing room.

“You can stay here until midnight,” she told them.

“Parkinson!” someone shouted. “Get your ass out here! On in five!”

“Ok!” she roared back. “Stay here,” she repeated, whipping off her dressing gown, revealing a full length dress with a slip up to one hip. She closed the door.

“I wonder how she knew my name,” said Harry, frowning at the shut door.

“Maybe Moody mentioned—”

Two sharp clicks sounded behind the dressing room door. Tom and Harry looked at each other. A split second later, they dove for cover. Harry shot beneath the dressing table and Tom pressed himself against the wall, hidden behind the vast girth of Parkinson’s wardrobe. The next instant, bullets exploded through the door. The mirror over the dressing table shattered, the privacy stand Parkinson used to dress behind collapsed and splintered. Tom tucked in his legs and gritted his teeth as gunfire tore the small room apart.

Finally, it stopped.

“You okay?” Harry gasped from under the wreckage of the dressing table.

“Barely,” Tom replied, irritated.

The door was kicked down and like two charging bulls, he and Harry shot out from their hiding places. Harry tackled one in the knees; the back of his head collided with the wall. Tom punched the other in the jaw. The third aimed his machine gun, but Parkinson appeared in the doorway behind him. A small revolver was in her hand. She fired and the man dropped.

“These are Greyback’s men,” Harry panted, getting to his feet.

Shaking, the gun fell from Parkinson’s hands.

“Pansy?”

“I’m sorry!” she cried. “I’m sorry!”

“Did you set us up?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“ _Move._ ” Tom stepped over the groaning bodies on the floor and grasped Parkinson’s arm. Together they left the destroyed dressing room, entering the club. Everyone had heard the shots. People were rushing the exits, screaming. With Parkinson in tow, he and Harry shouldered their way through the crowd and onto the street. From both ends of the road, police rushed to the scene and it was easy to slip away in the confusion. Tom frogmarched the girl for half a block before swinging her around against a frozen brick wall and hissing, “ _What the hell was that?_ ”

Parkinson was either too dumb or too distraught to answer. Her mascara ran in streams down her cheeks. She shook with cold and fright.

Harry placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “How about we all calm down with a cup of tea?” He flicked his eyes at the shop they’d stopped at. An all-night diner. 

Tom’s lips pressed thin. _He_ didn’t need to calm down, but he acquiesced. Harry took hold of Parkinson and steered her inside the shop. They were the only customers. Harry helped her slid into a booth that had a clear view of the entrance. He shimmied in beside her to keep her from bolting and Tom sat opposite. Parkinson was a mess of tears.

“Thanks for saving us back there,” said Harry.

Tom snorted.

“Mind telling us why three men with machine guns blasted apart your dressing room?” Harry asked and when Parkinson continued to sob, he added, “Grindelwald was never going to show, was he?”

Parkinson shook her head.

“You said that to get us here.”

Parkinson nodded.

“But you turned on them. You kept them from killing us, so looks to me like your heart wasn’t in it.”

She turned her blood-shot eyes upon Harry.

“I didn’t want anyone t-t-to get killed. I just — I just —” She dissolved again.

Exasperated, Tom waved down a waiter.

“Coffee,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Strong. Very, very strong.”

“Are you hungry?” Harry asked Parkinson and then, turning to the waiter, “Three burgers and fries. And are those popsicles?” he asked, pointing at a freezer nestled in a nearby corner.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take one of those, too.”

Tom stared at Harry.

“It’s below freezing outside and you want an _ice pop_?”

“Yes,” said Harry primly.

“I’ll have your order in a sec,” said the waiter, bemused by the three of them.

Harry turned back to Parkinson. “The thing you wanted was Draco, wasn’t it?”

Parkinson took a heavy, long, shuddering breath.

“You hired Greyback to kidnap Scorpius, didn’t you?”

Her dark eyes closed and two more tears leaked out.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“I —” She struggled to speak. “I wanted him back. He left me. He just … walked out. Married that … that …” Apparently she was incapable of saying the name Astoria Greengrass. “He wouldn’t return my phone calls; he wouldn’t speak to me. I felt erased and I was so … _angry_.”

The waiter returned with Tom’s coffee and Harry’s ice pop. Tom couldn’t believe him.

“You’re really going to eat that?”

Harry tore back the wrapping and popped it into his mouth, sliding it in and out.

“I was in the mood,” he said nonchalantly.

Catching himself staring, Tom turned back to Parkinson, voice suddenly strained. “You were saying?”

“I know it was stupid. I regretted it the moment I hired Greyback. I tried to take it back, but he wouldn’t. He didn’t even care if he got paid. He wanted to get back at Draco for what he did to his crew.”

When Harry had told Tom that Draco Malfoy had spilled the beans on his parents’ impressive money laundering scheme to the Order of the Phoenix, Tom had been astounded. Draco Malfoy had always been a weak-backed coward in his eyes, but now, as he listened to Draco’s former lover, he wondered if Draco’s change of heart had to do with Astoria and Scorpius. Had Draco been torn between which family to be loyal to?

“I didn’t want anyone to get hurt!” cried Parkinson.

“Scorpius is okay,” Harry assured her.

“Are they happy?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I think so.”

More tears spilled. Harry passed her a paper napkin.

“This is all very touching,” said Tom with bite, “but none of this explains why we were _shot at_.”

“A couple of weeks ago, Greyback showed up at the club,” said Parkinson.

“What?” Harry sputtered; the ice pop nearly slipped from his fingers. “How the hell did he get out of prison so fast?”

“He told me he’d fled Europe,” said Parkinson. “That it was too hot for him there, but he wanted payback against the men who’d stopped the kidnapping and he wanted me to … to get you here, to New York. He said if I didn’t help, he’d …” She squeezed her eyes shut. “ _Cut up_ my mum and dad.”

“So you cozied up to Moody and told him you could pass along information on Grindelwald,” said Tom.

Looking miserable, Parkinson nodded. 

Harry ran a hand through his hair and Tom wondered if he too was taking in the monumental stupidity of this woman.

“Can you get us Grindelwald?” Harry asked, taking Tom by surprise.

“I—” Parkinson floundered. “Maybe. He has been to the club a few times. He left me a note once. Said he liked my singing.”

“You want this woman to be an informant?” said Tom. “This leaking hosepipe?”

“Ignore him,” said Harry.

Tom bristled.

“Would you be up for it?” Harry went on, speaking directly to Parkinson. “The Order of the Phoenix will be open to cutting you a deal if you can help us snag Grindelwald. I won’t lie, it will be exceedingly dangerous, but it looks to me like you can handle yourself. You saved our lives back there—”

“After locking us in,” Tom gritted.

 _“_ E-excuse me …” said the waiter.

“What?” Tom snapped. He froze. So distracted by Harry and Parkinson, he had not been paying attention to the diner’s entrance and a gang of men had arrived. The skinny, pimple-covered waiter trembled as Fenrir Greyback held him at gun point.

“Sorry chums,” said Greyback with a broad, sharp smile, “dinner’s gonna have to wait. _Ah, ah, ah!_ Hands were I can see ’em.”

Slowly the three of them raised their hands.

Greyback jerked his gun. “In the kitchen.”

In single file, they moved into the back of the diner. The cook cried out in alarm at the sight of them, but Greyback put one thick finger to his lips.

“ _Shhhh._ No need for that.”

The cook snapped her mouth shut, arms over her head.

“Scabior, Dawlish, tie them up.”

“How’s the nose, Greyback?” Harry asked as everyone’s wrists were roughly secured behind their backs.

Greyback leveled his gun with Harry’s chest. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.” He shoved him to the ground. “And you,” he added, addressing Tom, “this is for jumping me.” He balled his meaty hand into a fist and plowed it into Tom’s stomach.

Tom heard Parkinson shout, he heard Harry swear filth, but the details were obsolete. Tom wheezed, the air knocked out of him. He landed with a heavy thud on his side. Harry scooted beside him and instantly, Tom’s senses were filled — not with old grease and sizzling burgers, but wormwood. Eyes watering, he blinked up at Harry.

Parkinson was causing a scene, shouting and screaming at Greyback, fighting against Dawlish as he held her back, and Tom was able to sit up.

“Shut her up!” Greyback barked and Dawlish clapped a hand over Parkinson’s mouth. He turned back to Tom and Harry, but Tom could not look away from the green-eyed man beside him. The world ground to a halt; Greyback and the kitchen fell away. All that there was, all that existed, was Harry.

Harry’s eyes dropped to Tom’s mouth and then flickered back up, holding Tom’s gaze and then lips — warm, soft lips were against his and Tom’s head spun, his mind went blank, his lungs froze. Harry’s kiss turned firm as he pressed his lips harder against Tom's, imprinting his touch. Tom wanted to pull Harry flush, he wanted to sink into him, curl around him, but his bound arms would not allow it. Harry opened his mouth, pushing in his tongue, and the last startled thought that whizzed through Tom’s brain before the bullet was that Harry’s ice pop had been lemon.


	5. Idiots for Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Those comments last week … they started to overwhelm me, but in the best possible way. Thank you! Thank you! Now I’ll get out of your way because I know you want to find out what happens next. See you again at the end!

Even with the line of lanterns dangling overhead, darkness pressed heavy against Harry’s eyes. He lifted his wand higher, trying to see further, but the tunnel swallowed up his light. It was freezing this far deep in the earth, even with his three thick wool sweaters. This was the spot. It had to be. _And if not_ , he thought resolutely, _I’ll start digging somewhere else_.

Life Sixteen. Tom had asked him in the previous Life what number they were on and Harry hadn’t known, but he did now. On his eight birthday he wrote them all down. Life Sixteen and Tom was buried somewhere so deep underground that it took a team of archaeologists and a horde of dwarves to reach him. Harry was known across globe as the Digger. Not the most attractive of titles, but the Wizarding World had always been direct in their labels.

As with every other Life before it, Harry’s childhood had been plagued with dreams: staring faces and dead mice; the repeated _ding_ of a cashier’s money box and the smell of old books — the Horcurx laying out clues for him like breadcrumbs. This time it had been darkness and the echoing, dull plop of water droplets ... a deep and unwavering silence. It took years for Harry track down each specific Horcrux, but track them down, he always did. And if it meant turning the world into Swiss cheese, he’d do it.

“Why is it your mission to uncover Salazar Slytherin’s lost grave, Professor?” a reporter had asked him recently.

“Because no one has,” Harry had answered.

 _Come on, Tom. Talk to me._

This hill _had_ to be the one. Harry felt a tingle in his bones, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling not just from the cold and damp. Harry waited in the flickering light, watching the dwarves clear away rocks from their last carefully placed blast. He was flanked by Hermione and Draco. It was always a relief when he discovered one or both of his oldest friends occupying a current Life. Ron had moved to New Zealand, but after graduating Hogwarts, Hermione had remained in England, joining Harry in his historical search.

 _Hogwarts._ Harry couldn’t wait to tell Tom.

“I don’t think you should be down here,” Draco said again.

“Draco, if you say that one more time—”

“This is dangerous!” he insisted. “And you’re pregnant!”

“If you think I’m missing this just because of that you married the wrong witch,” Hermione snapped.

The dwarves cleared the last of the rubble and, heart in throat, Harry hurried forward. The passage was little more than a crack in the stone, but Harry shined his wand through it. His heart jumped.

“This is it!”

“It is?” Hermione cried.

Even Draco’s worries were shoved aside as they both scampered over rocks and loose dirt to reach Harry. Ten minutes of careful chiseling widened the gap and Harry slipped through, finally entering Salazar Slytherin’s burial chamber. Harry’s wand traveled in a slow arc and his beam of light fell upon a stone basin. Harry recognized it instantly. It was the same basin Tom had placed in his underground lake. Harry’s legs jerked into action. He passed artifacts and treasures that would have had anyone’s head spinning. He passed them all without a glance, heading straight for the basin in the corner. Heart thundering, fingers trembling, he stepped up to it. It was not filled with potion. Instead a wand and a gaudy ring rested on the stone bottom. With Hermione causing a distraction as she tried to squeeze her pregnant belly through the gap in the stone, Harry pocketed them.

* * *

As head archaeologist, Harry couldn’t leave the excavation site. His entire professional career had been in search of Salazar Slytherin’s tomb. To up and leave instantly after unearthing it would have looked strange. He had to play his part, but it was difficult with Tom in his pocket. Just two words. Just two words and he would be back.

But Harry couldn’t do it here. There would be too many questions and Harry … Harry wanted Tom all to himself.

He kept the team working as long as he could stand before calling it a night.

“Come on,” he said, urging Hermione to put down her brush. “Time to celebrate. None of this is walking off.”

After a very jostled and jerking cart ride up from the rocky depths, they returned to the surface, dusty and dirty, but bursting with energy. Hermione couldn’t stop jabbering about the scrolls she’d found and Draco was already planning the press conference. Harry walked the quickest of the lot, striding down the massive hill and into the tiny village, back to the Hook and Hammer, the only Wizarding inn for two hundred miles.

“Rounds for everyone!” he cheered the moment he entered. “We found it!”

The entire pub erupted. Harry was clapped on the back and a pint was thrust into his hand. The fiddlers in the corner started up a foot-tapping jig and in all the excitement, Harry was finally able to slip away. He sprinted up the stairs to his room, locked himself inside and downed his pint in one go.

He was shaking, heart racing. He sat on the edge of the bed, trying to regain some composure. He was thirty-one years old. _Thirty-one years_ since he’d last seen Tom, but the memory of their last moment was as vivid as if it had just happened. Harry removed the wand and ring from his pocket, cradling them in his hands. He set the wand aside, placing it on the dresser, and rolled the ring between his fingers. Inside the gold band was the inscription.

Harry swallowed. Everything had been leading to this moment, but now that he’d reached it, he was frozen in place. He didn’t know how Tom would be. What if … what if he’d guessed wrong? What if Tom didn’t want him after all? What if he stormed out of Harry’s life for good?

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, saw the dirt that came off on his palm, and cleaned himself swiftly with a spell. He checked himself in the mirror and attempted to flatten his hair.

“Perhaps a haircut, dear?” the mirror suggested.

Harry ignored it. He took a great breath, held the ring firmly in his hand and said clearly, “ _Memento Mori._ ”

As sudden and instant as Apparition, Tom appeared, dressed in a simple, black suit. His hair was the same; his face was the same, but his expression …

Harry’s throat closed up, panic squeezing his heart.

_Please want me, please want me, please want me._

Tom stared at him, not saying a word, hardly _breathing_ , and Harry couldn’t take it.

“I kissed you,” he blurted.

Tom didn’t so much as blink, standing as if made of stone, and this was going worse than Harry had feared.

Grappling, desperate for a reaction other than frozen silence, Harry asked, “Did you mind?”

“No.”

And before Harry could process the incredibleness of what he’d heard, Tom had grabbed him, pulled him against his chest and kissed him with enough force to crush. Harry replied with enthusiasm, rising up onto his toes and wrapping his arms around Tom’s neck. They kissed until Harry grew light-headed, but Tom wouldn’t let him go, kissing him again and again. Harry unbuttoned Tom’s shirt, trying to work it and the coat off as they continued to plunder each other’s mouths. Miraculously, he managed it, sliding his hands up and down Tom’s smooth back. Somehow, they’d gotten onto the bed.

“Wait,” Harry gasped. He sat up, forcing Tom to do the same. He reached down and yanked his carryall from underneath the bed. He unzipped it, grabbed a fistful of condoms, sat back up and dropped the load into Tom’s lap. “Fuck me.”

Tom stared. Harry’s face drained of color and then flooded with blood.

“Or not,” he backtracked at top speed. “If you don’t want to — We don’t have to. Sorry — God, I’m sorry — You're right. We should probably talk —”

Mortified, Harry made to snatch back up the packets and bottle of lube, but Tom’s hand covered his, stopping him. Tom looked him straight in the eye.

“Fuck _me_.”

**oOo**

Harry’s mouth dropped open.

“ _What?_ ”

“Fuck me,” Tom repeated.

Stunned, Harry mouthed, seeming to have forgotten how to speak.

“O-okay …”

Tom leaned back onto the bed, resting on his elbows. He watched Harry fumble with the packets, scarlet in the face, looking like _he_ was the virgin in the room. Thinking it might help steady Harry, Tom said, “I’ve never done this before.”

It didn’t.

The lubricant fell from Harry’s hands. It rolled under the bed, and flaming more than ever, Harry dove to retrieve it.

“You haven’t?” he asked, coming back into view.

Tom shook his head. “I never wanted to.”

“I … I thought … the way you talked about Bellatrix…”

Tom laughed. “ _She_ wanted to. I didn’t.”

“Oh.”

Harry swallowed and the movement of his throat entranced Tom. A great thud and raucous laughter came from under the floorboards and Tom suddenly realized he hadn’t paid the room or the details of this new Life a single thought, so focused on Harry.

“That’s the pub,” Harry explained at Tom’s quizzical expression. “They’re having a party.”

As determined as Harry had been to shed Tom of his coat and shirt, he had done very little undressing himself, but as Tom watched, Harry removed his jumper, revealing two more underneath and a turtleneck. Studying each garments removal, Tom asked, “When are we?”

“1965. February 1st. I’m a professor.”

Tom’s eyebrows shot upward. “That’s different.”

“An archaeologist. Oh, and by the way, next time, don’t be buried eight hundred feet inside a hill.”

“I was in a hill?”

“Eight hundred and sixty-three feet inside a hill to be exact.” Harry stepped out of his pants and Tom momentarily lost his train of thought as he took in the sight of the man before him.

Harry joined him on the bed, climbing on top of him. They kissed and unlike the ones before, this kiss was slow. Slow and savoring, like slipping into a warm bath. Harry undid Tom’s belt and worked his trousers off and they were a line of skin. Tom sank into the mattress, letting Harry sweep him away with another kiss. Tom’s hands roamed Harry’s back, his sides, moving down to his ass.

“I thought you wanted me to do that,” Harry murmured and thank Merlin, the awkwardness had gone, the old teasing grin that Tom knew so well back in place.

“Then get on with it.”

Harry’s smile turned feral. He nipped Tom’s lips before traveling a meandering path down his chest. Tom inhaled sharply as Harry dragged his tongue across the head of his cock. Salazar. Maybe he wasn’t ready after all. But before Tom could utter a word, Harry had taken him into his mouth and _Merlin’s balls_. Tom gripped the sheets to keep himself grounded, to keep himself from driving straight down Harry’s throat. So consumed with what Harry was doing to his cock, Tom didn’t notice Harry’s fingers dipping around him, touching and pressing —

Harry pulled off him, kissing his hips and thighs instead, but he kept sliding a slick finger in and out. Slowly, he added a second.

“For fuck’s sake, Harry,” Tom gritted, because he couldn’t last if Harry took his time like this.

“Bend your legs.”

Tom did and Harry settled between his knees. Slowly, inch by inch, he entered and it was unlike anything Tom imagined it would be. It was unlike anything he’d read, anything he’d seen in those Muggle films. It was more. A hundred times _more_.

Harry kissed him again. Instead of the sheets, Tom gripped Harry’s shoulders, fingers digging in as Harry gently shifted his hips back and forth, inching his cock deeper. God. God. _God._ He didn’t know how long it lasted. He didn’t know if he babbled out loud or only in his head. Harry’s breath grew loud in Tom’s ear as his movements turned fast, thrusting with greater urgency. Tom’s hand traveled back down Harry’s spine and clutched his ass, helping him go deeper. The bed bounced as their pace quickened even further.

“ _Tom — Tom —_ ”

Tom was past coherence. He was on a runaway train and heading straight for a cliff. Harry’s hand was suddenly between their slick bodies, wrapping firmly around his cock, pumping him and Tom was exploding. He was soaring…

After a moment, breathing hard, Harry peeled himself off Tom’s chest.

“You … you okay?”

Tom stared up at the ceiling, his face hot. His entire body buzzed. He felt more alive than he’d ever felt. Harry’s face moved into his line of vision.

“Did I hurt you? Are you okay? Tom, talk to me.”

“You are adorable when you worry.”

Harry looked startled and Tom rose up and met his lips. He was surprised their contact did not spark an electric shock. Harry returned his kiss and they fell back onto the bed, their positions reversed. He ground their cocks together; Harry was already growing hard again. Wanting to reciprocate, Tom moved down Harry’s lithe body, pausing to bite a nipple. Harry’s breath hitched and Tom grinned. It was _his_ turn.

* * *

“Well?”

Flat on his back, Harry took a moment to answer.

“That was … good.”

Tom frowned. “Good?”

“Yeah.”

“Just _good_?”

“I liked it,” Harry said swiftly. “I did.”

Tom narrowed his eyes and Harry rushed, “I wasn’t amazing my first time either. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Tom was stunned.

“I’m _always_ excellent.”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Harry insisted. “And I liked it a lot when you licked my—”

“Who was better than me?” Tom demanded.

“This isn’t a compe—”

“ _Who?_ And how did _you_ even know how to do any of that? Weren’t you married to a woman?”

“Yes,” said Harry primly, “but I was also with a man.”

Tom felt as if the floor had opened up and swallowed him.

“Who?” he gritted.

“I don’t understand why you’re getting so worked up about this.”

“ _Who?_ ”

Harry sighed. “Colin.”

“ _Creevey?_ ” Tom sputtered. _“Merlin’s balls_ — Creevey? When?”

Harry snorted. “Did you just say Merlin’s balls?”

“ _When?_ ” Tom growled, leaning menacingly over him but Harry lay supine and comfortable.

“When we were in France,” he answered. “Tracking those petite four mobsters. I was staying at his loft, remember?”

Tom’s throat seized up and all he could force out was, “ _Creevey?_ ”

Harry laughed. “Don’t worry. Colin may have been more experienced, but I like you better.” He sat up. His lips brushed Tom’s cheek. One hand slid up his bare thigh. “You know what the quickest way to improving is, right?”

Tom was torn between irritation, embarrassment and arousal.

“Practice,” he grumbled.

“That’s right. Would you like to practice on me some more?”

Tom was mesmerized. “How did you manage to make that sound so filthy?”

Harry grinned. “Practice.”

* * *

It could have been midnight. It could have been five in the morning. Tom didn’t know and he didn’t care. In a rare moment of stillness, they lay together, content enough to be held in each other’s gaze. Harry was on his stomach, head resting on folded arms, and Tom lay stretched beside him, trailing his fingers along Harry’s spine.

“I’m a bit surprised.”

Tom kissed his shoulder. “By what?”

“You,” Harry murmured. “I didn’t think you wanted me.”

“I didn’t think _you_ wanted _me_ ,” Tom countered.

“Oh, I’ve wanted you for ages.”

Tom rose up onto his elbow, better to see Harry’s face. A blush once more tinged Harry’s cheeks, turning him even more into an Adonis.

“When you say ages,” Tom began.

“Since Colorado,” said Harry, not looking at him.

“Since …” Tom blinked. “That was—”

“Four Lives ago.” Harry glanced at him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t think you were interested.”

“So you decided to shag Creevey instead?”

“I didn’t think you were interested,” Harry repeated. “And I thought Colin might help me get over you. He didn’t,” he added. “Obviously.”

“You’ve fancied me for _four_ Lives?”

“When you say it like that I sound pathetic,” said Harry, disgruntled.

“I’m either incredibly oblivious or you’re a far better actor than I thought.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Told ya.” And then his voice softened. “Sorry it took so long to get up my nerve.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself,” said Tom. “I’ve wanted you since St. Brutus, but did I do anything?”

Harry had removed his glasses during their second round of sex and had not put them back on. Without them, his eyes glowed like lanterns. He rose. Sitting up, he cupped Tom’s face, rubbing a thumb along a cheekbone.

“I thought, back then, that maybe there was something,” he whispered, “but when you moved out…”

“I was worried I’d ruin everything if I stayed.”

Harry laughed. “We’re both idiots.”

“Idiots for life,” Tom breathed against his lips and they returned to the softness of the bed and the softness of each other’s embrace.

* * *

A rooster crowed and sunlight illuminated their tangled limbs. Tom was first to wake and what a sight Harry made. If Harry was a beauty in the darkness, he was a sailor’s dream in dawn’s frosty glow. Tom’s hands lightly grazed his skin, marveling that a mere Life ago he’d thought this impossible. If only Harry had found his Horcrux sooner, they could have been enjoying each other’s touch for weeks, months, years. Tom couldn’t imagine going a minute without kissing him, without pressing his hand upon that skin. Not wanting to wake the vision beside him, Tom remained still and quiet, taking in the room they were in for the first time.

A perfectly ordinary bedchamber belonging to probably a perfectly ordinary inn. He wondered what country they were—

Tom sat bolt upright. He blinked hard at the window. That had looked like … but it couldn’t have been …

“Harry, wake up!”

“Wha—?” Harry grunted into his pillow.

“Get up! I just saw a—”

Tom’s voice was snuffed out as an owl with a letter clamped in its beak flapped onto the windowsill. Stretching, Harry sat up.

“What are you going on about?” he asked blearily.

“ _Magic._ ”

Harry woke instantly. He saw the owl waiting on the other side of the closed window.

“There’s magic here,” Tom breathed, sounding like a child on Christmas morning.

Harry grinned. “I meant to tell you last night, but I forgot.” He left the bed and walked naked across the room to a dresser. He returned, holding a wand. Tom’s heart clenched.

“How did you—?”

“It was with the ring,” said Harry. “Give it a go.”

Spells upon spells. Hundreds and thousands, they jostled for attention in Tom’s brain. He pointed the yew at the window and it clicked open, swinging inward. The owl flew inside. In a graceful arc, it dropped its letter onto the bed and soared right back out. He’d thought he would never experience magic again and now that it had returned Tom felt jittery with euphoria, wanting to cast every spell he knew and yet not knowing where to begin, so he sent their discarded heaps of clothing dancing around the room, the flower print on the walls burst into living blooms and the empty fire grate erupted into purple flames.

Harry laughed. Tom turned to him.

“Thank you.”

“It had nothing to do with me. I keep telling you I don’t pick these Lives. If I could, I would never live with the Dursleys again.” He opened his letter and Tom transfigured the envelope into a rabbit. It scampered across the bed, leapt to the floor and hid under the dresser.

“Oh no,” Harry moaned. “ _Draco._ ”

“Is he here again?”

“Yeah. Prick,” he added lightly. “He’s already set the mob on me.” At Tom’s raised eyebrows, he clarified, “The press. Better lock that window if you don’t want this room to turn into an Owlery in five minutes. Oh — I forgot to mention it last night. He and Hermione are married.”

Pausing in turning their bed posts into gold, Tom looked at Harry dumbfounded.

“They’re what?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “There goes my theory.”

“But Granger and Weasley are _always_ together. They’re like barnacles.”

“Let’s keep that comparison between us,” said Harry.

“How did it happen?”

“As Hermione puts it, Draco’s unrelenting charm won her over. I try to keep an open mind. Ron’s in New Zealand. Moved there after Hogwarts. Has a flourishing knitting business.”

“ _Knitting?_ ” 

“Yeah.” Harry shook his head, bemused. “These Lives are getting ridiculous, but, not going to lie, the socks he made me last Christmas were _wonderful_. I’ll make sure you get a pair. Also, before everyone wakes up we should probably discuss your cover story.”

“Surely we can do that later.”

“Hermione wakes up pretty — _oh_.” Comprehension fell over Harry’s face as Tom put down his wand and took hold of Harry’s cock instead. The letter fluttered to the floor. “We can wait a little longer,” he agreed.

Grinning, Tom settled between Harry’s legs, swallowing his cock. Instantly, it hardened. Harry’s fingers ran through his hair as Tom bobbed. With each downward motion he relaxed his throat and Tom felt more than saw Harry lie back onto the bed. He took his time and the slow pace and careful ministrations were rewarded. Harry’s breathing turned labored, a moan breaking through as Tom swirled his tongue around the tip before sinking down, down …

“Fuck.” Harry writhed beneath him. “T-Tom —”

He knew Harry was close; he knew he was trying to urge him to pull off, but Tom took even more of him and Harry came, but even then, Tom did not stop, continuing to suck and bob, continuing to message and press his balls.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Harry gasped. He gripped Tom’s hair, simultaneously trying to wriggle away and bury himself deeper. His back arched, his voice cracking. “ _Tom!_ ”

Harry’s dry orgasm was perhaps even more erotic than anything so far and as Tom finally pulled off with a wet pop, he made it a goal to have it happen on a regular basis. He climbed up Harry’s heaving chest, taking in the sight — dilated eyes; hair plastered to a sweaty brow.

“ _Jesus,_ ” Harry breathed.

“Better?” Tom asked.

“Much — better —” Harry placed a hand over his heart. “You got me dizzy.”

“Did Creevey ever manage that?”

Harry burst into laughter.

“Harry, are you up?” A woman’s voice sounded behind the door before a series of loud raps.

“Shit,” Harry hissed. He quickly sat up, nearly elbowing Tom in the face. “Be down in a minute, Hermione!”

“Why are you out of breath?”

Harry hesitated a split second. “Calisthenics.”

“Don’t over exert yourself,” Granger said sharply through the locked door. “You know what Ced—”

“Got it!” said Harry loudly. “See you at breakfast!” And they heard her step away from the door. “Okay.” He sprang from the bed. “You and I met in Midsomer Norton.”

Tom wrinkled his nose. “Midsomer Norton?”

“You worked as head curator to a private museum and you hosted one of my talks.”

“Was it well attended?”

Enchanted by Tom’s spell, Harry’s underwear danced out of reach.

“Erm … not really. You quit your job and have been on a week-long travel through Somerset.” Harry snatched the trunks by the waistband and pulled them on. “You came to Wells yesterday and decided to book a room at the Hook and Hammer. Wait up here for ten seconds before coming downstairs. I’ll go ‘Wow! Tom! I didn’t know you were in the village!’ and introduce you to the team. Got it? Tom?” Harry turned back around to discover that Tom had been staring at his ass.

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Wait ten seconds; meet you downstairs; follow your lead,” Tom recited.

“That shouldn’t have turned me on as much as it did.”

Smirking, Tom languidly stretched onto his back, exposing himself.

“Any other _orders_ you’d like me to follow, Harry?”

Harry actually quivered, but he turned away, donning the rest of his clothing and lacing up his boots. He pointed his wand at himself and then at Tom. His skin shivered as Harry’s spell removed all traces of their night together, even going so far as to smooth his hair.

“Gotta go,” said Harry, planting a kiss on Tom’s lips. “See you soon!” He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Dressed, Tom entered the Hook and Hammer’s dining quarters. At once, Harry leapt to his feet, hailing him with such enthusiasm diners stared.

“Tom! What are _you_ doing here?”

For the first time ever, Tom nearly blew his cover. Maybe it was due to lack of sleep or maybe it was because of happiness, but Tom almost broke down in wild laughter.

“Harry,” he greeted, shaking his hand. “Long time.”

“Eat with us!” Harry insisted, grabbing Tom by the arm and pulling him into the vacant chair at their table.

Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy sat across from them, staring in polite confusion as Harry began introductions. When the topic of the current state of his employment expectedly arose, Harry said brightly, “Why don’t you stay with me?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” said Tom demurely. Beneath the table, his foot slid up Harry’s leg. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You won’t be,” said Harry, grinning far too wide.

“I know a few museums in the area,” piped up Granger. “I can set up some interviews for you, if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Tom firmly. Like hell would he let himself be stuck in a dusty museum. “I want to try something new,” he clarified at her startled expression. “Curating has turned lack-luster.”

“Why don’t I drop you off at my place,” Harry suggested.

“You’re leaving?” said Granger, shocked. “Now? But we just uncovered Slytherin’s tomb!”

“You did what?” said Tom.

“I’ve got the press coming at ten,” said Draco, just as alarmed as his wife.

“We haven’t even _begun_ cataloging!”

“Okay!” said Harry, lifting his hands in surrender. “Sorry. I guess with all the excitement happening I lost my head.” He turned to Tom. “Mind sticking around for a day or two until I get things sorted?”

“As long as I get a tour.”

It was clear from Granger’s expression that this was strictly against policy rules, but Harry said “Sure!” before she could open her mouth. He jumped to his feet, pulling Tom along with him. Draco half rose.

“Don’t forget—”

“Press. Ten. Got it,” said Harry over his shoulder as the pair of them walked out into the sunlight.

* * *

It took a full week for Harry to ‘sort out the dig’ and quite the dig it was. Tom learned through the press conference that this had been Harry’s twelfth attempt.

“Now that you’ve unearthed Slytherin’s Tomb where do you go from here?” asked a voice from the back. Tom sat up straighter on his bar stool, recognizing that voice. _Colin Creevey._ Tom’s eyes shot back to where Harry stood at the front of the pub. He half glanced at Tom, the corners of his lips twitching.

“I’m sure I’ll come up with something,” he replied.

Later that night, Tom made sure that ‘something’ was unforgettable.

“If I didn't know better,” said Harry when he had enough breath to speak after Tom finished with him, “I’d say you were jealous.”

Tom collapsed beside Harry. If he’d known how wonderful sex could be, he would have started Lives ago.

“Jealous?” He casually flicked sweat from his forehead. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Good thing Ginny’s not around or you’d probably kill me with ecstasy.” Harry rolled onto his side. “Are you okay with this?”

“Oh, I am delighted with this arraignment.”

Harry chuckled. “I meant with being ordinary.”

“Ordinary?”

“Yeah. Ordinary. No guns. No vampires. No secret organizations. No saving the world. I really am just a professor who digs giant holes four months out of the year. I’m ordinary. I’m as ordinary as I can possibly be.” He looked suddenly nervous. “Will you be ordinary with me?”

“Harry, you can’t be ordinary.”

Harry’s face fell and Tom rolled onto his side to face him.

“You can’t be because you’re not,” he clarified. “It’s like telling a unicorn to be a mule.”

“But what if I really _want_ to be a mule?”

“Then we’ll play pretend, but darling, you’re never going to fool anybody. I’m afraid you’re simply far too extraordinary to pull that off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Colin Creevey. Harry's secret fling. I think I mentioned this in a comment reply: I love how inhuman Tom Riddle is, even in canon. One of my favorite scenes is in book 6 when Harry's watching the memory of 16 yr old Tom meeting his Uncle and how utterly unafraid he is and that Harry's actively jealous. You get the feeling that Tom is exceptional at _everything_. But it's also super fun and interesting to flip that on its head. Of course he can't be perfect at everything on the first try and having him stack himself up against Colin Creevey in any regard cracks me up. 
> 
> I have nothing against Midsomer Norton. It’s probably a lovely place. Tom’s reaction to it was mostly due to me watching a lot of Midsomer Murders. The very rural villages teeming with nosy neighbors and busy-bodies seemed like a place Tom would not flourish in. But with the number of people dropping dead in those counties … hmm. Maybe Tom would actually fit in rather well. 
> 
> Again. Seriously. Thank you so much for your comments. They filled me with joy.


	6. It's Just a Phrase

They lived in the countryside, on the outskirts of Belfast. It was quiet, it was ordinary, and Tom was happier than he’d ever been. Their cottage was located next to a pond that was home to a flourishing family of grindylows and ducks. Their sweeping garden, and the woods flanking it, were riddled with such a host of gnomes that if Harry or Tom tossed out so much as a crust of bread, it was snatched up before it hit the dirt. As Harry was against murdering the pests, Tom was forced to be creative. Wolfsbane and hemlock. Snargaluff and devil’s snare. Soon there wasn’t a gnome in sight.

“Just keep to the path,” he reminded Harry each morning when he set out for his walk.

They hardly had visitors and even more rarely, dinner guests, something Tom suspected was due to Harry. He knew Tom didn’t care for people dropping by, but at times it bothered Tom.

“If you want Granger or Draco over for tea, I won’t mind,” he insisted.

“I know,” Harry would reply.

Instead, their most common guest was a bottle-brush cat who went by the name of Crookshanks.

“He’s a stray,” Harry explained the first time the cat appeared at their kitchen door. “He comes by about once a week before heading on to the Finnigans. Hermione owned him originally.”

To Tom’s consternation, Harry let the cat in, opened a can of Fishmonger’s Delight and scratched the cat behind the ears.

Tom covered his nose from the horrific smell.

“Wouldn’t Granger like it back?” he asked, glaring as the cat leaned into Harry’s hand, purring loud enough for the grindylows in the pond to hear.

“I suggested it, but apparently Draco has an allergy.”

_Like hell he did._

“Would someone _else_ like it?” Tom pressed.

“Probably. But you try telling Crookshanks where he can and can’t go and see what happens.”

Tom did.

The moment Harry left for the Academy of Magical Histories and Art, where he taught a class, Tom sent the cat flying from the kitchen. It landed with an earsplitting shriek, flattening a patch of Lily of the Valley. Satisfied, Tom vanished the vomit-inducing food and returned to his morning pot of tea.

An hour later, as Tom walked past his and Harry’s bedroom he stopped in his tracks and did a double take. The cat was curled on the duvet.

“OUT!” Tom raged as the cat skidded through the house and bounded through an open window, disappearing into the hedge.

* * *

The next day, he woke to find the cat licking its paws at the foot of the bed. The day after that, the cat was in the laundry basket, shedding yellow fur everywhere. Tom didn’t understand how he kept getting in.

“He can’t be climbing down the chimney,” he muttered as the cat jumped into the suitcase Harry was trying to pack, batting playfully at Harry’s hands.

“I did warn you,” said Harry. “Just stop trying to get rid of him and he’ll leave on his own. I swear, he’ll be gone by tomorrow. He’s never stayed this long.”

“Like hell am I going to let a cat lounge all over my things,” said Tom. “He smells.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does. He smells like cat.”

“That’s because he _is_ a cat.”

“Let me get a boa constrictor—”

“No.”

“The cat won’t come here anymore if we have a boa constrictor,” Tom insisted.

“If you want a pet snake, you get a corn snake or a rat snake. Something that won’t eat people.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Harry, you act like that’s a bad thing.”

Snorting, Harry lifted the cat out of the open suitcase and loaded the last of his clothing.

“I’ll be back Monday. There are cold cuts and that left over pot roast in the fridge.”

“I do know how to look after myself.”

“I know.” Harry picked up the suitcase and kissed him. “Don’t kill the cat.”

Irritated, Tom grumbled, “I won’t kill the cat.”

Smiling, Harry kissed him again and left via floo for his conference.

* * *

But would Harry _really_ know if he killed the cat?

As it bathed in Tom’s armchair, he paced up and down, formulating possible cover stories.

The fireplace burst into life behind him and Tom, thinking Harry had forgotten something, turned, only to find himself looking down a young woman.

“Hello,” she said brightly. “Is Harry in?”

“No,” Tom replied shortly. Was this a co-worker? “Who is calling?”

“Healer Diggory’s office,” said the woman. “Harry hasn’t set a date for his quarterly appointment and I was calling to arrange it.”

“Appointment?”

“Yes. It’s very important that he stop by the office.”

“He’s out of town at the moment, but I’ll make sure he gets your message.”

“Thank you.”

Before the girl could pull her head from the fireplace, Tom swiftly asked, “Forgive me, I’m Harry’s new assistant, Tom Riddle. He hasn’t mentioned any quarterly appointments.”

The girl rolled her eyes. “I’m not surprised. He’s _always_ putting them off. I don’t enjoy chasing after him all the time. Maybe you’ll be better at getting him to the office. It’s very important that he comes,” she insisted. “He acts like he’s immortal, but his heart is far from it.”

Tom’s chest tightened.

“Heart?”

“Mitral valve stenosis. Harry’s the best one to tell you the details.” The girl glanced over her shoulder, as if she’d heard something behind her. “Please get him to make an appointment,” she urged Tom. “He’s missed the last two.”

Tom nodded. She beamed and vanished with a pop.

_“What’s your defect this time?”_

_“Nothing important.”_

“Nothing important?” Tom growled, clutching his fists. “Nothing _important_?”

He snatched his cloak off the hook and stormed out of the cottage. He saw a flash of orange in the corner of his eye before slamming the door shut: Crookshanks had followed, bounding on bandy legs down the gravel garden path.

With a swish of his cloak, Tom turned on his heel and Disapparated. A blink later, he was in Diagon Alley, stomping up Flourish and Blott’s steps, but there was no mention of mitral valve stenosis in the Healer section. Livid, he was forced to enter Muggle London and the same public library he had used daily in his own childhood. Surrounded by stacks of medical journals and textbooks, he learned everything Muggle science had discovered about the anomaly.

But Harry was a wizard. Wizards didn’t suffer from _Muggle_ health problems. Except … every single one of Harry’s defects had been more Muggle than wizard, but Tom had chalked that up to the fact that magic was never around.

While no one was looking, Tom shrunk his stack of books and stuffed them into his pocket and returned home. If Harry was being treated by a Healer that meant the problem couldn’t be strictly Muggle. He entered the bathroom, opened the cabinet over the sink and riffled through the contents, but there were only razors, toothpaste and bars of soap. He moved into their bedroom and yanked open Harry’s drawers. He groped around shirts and sweaters; he sifted through underwear —

Tom’s hand stilled. A collection of potion bottles resided under a mountain of socks. He picked them up, inspecting the labels. Tom knew all of them — potions to slow the pulse, potions to thin the blood, potions to regulate, potions to relax. Tom sat on the edge of the bed, holding half a dozen bottles. Like a phantom, Harry’s voice echoed: _Nothing important; nothing important; nothing important._ And Tom had not pressed. Tom had not questioned him. Tom had let himself be drawn back into Harry’s arms, back into his kiss.

Half blind with rage, Tom carried the potions into the kitchen, depositing them with a clatter onto the table. He filled a glass of wine, downed it in one go and refilled it to the brim.

_Nothing important._

Harry had said it so casually. So lazily. Wine splashed onto the table, the bottle emptying at a rapid pace. When had Harry grown so skilled at lying? When had Tom grown so poor at detecting them? He set the wine glass down too hard and the stem broke, spilling wine all over the tabletop, but he didn’t care. He was already out of the kitchen, reaching for the floo powder over the mantel; he whirled across Ireland in a crackle of green smoke. He stumbled out of the hotel’s fireplace. At once, an usher stepped forward to greet him.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Get out of my way,” Tom snarled, shoving the man aside. “Harry!” He roared, weaving through the lobby and striding up a set of carpeted stairs. “Harry!”

“Sir!” hissed the man, scandalized, as he scuttled after Tom. “Please!”

“HARRY!”

“Tom?”

Tom spun around, nearly knocking the usher to the ground.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, stepping out of a conference hall. Behind him, craning their necks, was a packed audience.

“I know,” Tom snarled.

Bewildered, Harry asked, “You know what?”

“I know about your _defect_. I know about your _heart_.”

Harry paled.

“Sir, I must insist that you—”

“Don’t worry,” Tom informed the usher, though his harsh gaze remained locked on Harry. “I’m leaving.”

“Tom,” said Harry at once, but Tom had turned, marching back the way he’d come.

“ _Tom._ ”

He didn’t stop. He stormed into the crowded Floo Chamber.

“Tom, please stop!”

Harry grabbed his arm and Tom whipped around, so angry he thought he might strike him. Instead, he raged, “You said it was _nothing_.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“ _When?_ ” Tom demanded.

Harry opened his mouth but no sound came out.

“I can’t _believe_ you,” Tom seethed. “I find out from a goddamn secretary that you have a life threatening condition—”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“You are not fine!” Tom bellowed.

“Please keep your voice down,” said Harry as the hotel’s guests gawked. “Let’s go to my room. We can talk.”

But Tom stayed rooted to the spot as a certain detail of their first night returned.

“You said you were dizzy … I thought …”

As a queue jostled around them for the fireplaces, Harry again attempted to pull him to a more secluded corner.

“You've let me have sex with you,” Tom whispered, shaking with fury, “knowing it might —”

“It won't kill me,” said Harry firmly. “It’s perfectly safe for me to have sex. There’s very little risk.”

“ _Little risk?_ ” Tom’s eyebrows shot up at Harry’s audacity. “I’ve spent the entire day reading about your problem and there is nothing _little_ about it.”

“I should have told you,” Harry amended. “I’m sorry I didn’t. I just didn’t want … I didn’t want you to act different around me. I didn’t want it to get in our way.”

Tom stared at him. “So you would have been fine if I’d accidentally killed you.”

“You wouldn’t have—”

“Do you know _anything_ about your condition?” said Tom. 

“Yes,” Harry replied sharply, anger finally flaring, “as _I’ve_ been the one living with it my entire life. And this might be _shocking_ for you to comprehend, but maybe, _just maybe_ , I know what my heart can and can’t handle better than you!”

Ringing silence hung between them. Tom felt as if Harry had punched him.

“ _Well_ then.”

The anger on Harry’s face vanished. “Tom —”

“You will _never_ keep something like this from me again,” Tom breathed. “Is that clear?”

Harry swallowed. Tom yanked his arm free, stepped into a fireplace and returned to their cottage. A heavy rain had begun in the short time of his absence, pounding like hammers on the windows and roof. Plastered against the window over the writing desk, saturated and yowling, was the cat. Tom felt a surge of vindictive pleasure.

“Forgotten how to sneak in?” Tom asked it.

The cat’s yellow eyes were huge, his normally fluffy coat so wet it clung like a second skin. As Tom watched the pathetic animal, the pleasure shifted into something else. Something that felt uncomfortably close to guilt. Tom stared at the cat and the cat stared back.

_Just leave! Go! Go away!_

But it remained, both paws on the windowsill, staring and staring and staring. Jaw clenched, he walked into the kitchen and opened the back door. The cat must have run at top speed around the house for the moment the door opened a crack, he darted inside. Tom pulled out his wand and pointed it at Crookshanks; he dried instantly, fur puffing up like a fuzz ball.

“You’re not having Fishmonger,” Tom told him. He removed the tray of cold cuts Harry had saved and deposited a heap of roast chicken in the cat’s bowl. Purring loudly, the cat attacked the food.

He didn’t know what to do. His own heart ached. Harry had never had something this life threatening. Claustrophobia and nosebleeds … why couldn’t he have lost his voice again?

Tom’s legs buckled and he slid to the ground next to Crookshanks.

“Tom?”

Tom looked up. Harry stood in the kitchen doorway.

“You’re missing your conference.”

“Screw that.” Harry knelt before him. “I’m really sorry.”

Tom tried to swallow but there was no moister in his mouth.

“I’d just gotten you back,” Harry explained. “It was selfish, but I wanted you all to myself. I didn’t want my _mitral valve stenosis_ playing chaperon because I knew that the moment I told you, it would. Everything would change — it always does and I didn’t want that to happen to us. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“That girl — the secretary —”

“Cho.”

“She told me you’ve missed your last checkups.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“We’re going tomorrow,” Tom stated.

Harry nodded swiftly.

“And you are going to tell me if you get dizzy or if your chest hurts.”

“I will,” Harry swore. “I promise.”

“And you’re cutting back on salt,” Tom continued. “And there won’t be any more coffee. And no alcohol.”

“You too?” Harry asked lightly, glancing at the pools of wine on the floor and the broken glass on the table.

“Yes,” Tom replied. “You’re not going through this alone.”

Harry blinked, startled, as if he hadn’t expected Tom to say such a thing. His eyes were suddenly very bright.

“Thanks, Tom.”

Tom drew him into his arms and they sat on the kitchen floor. Food bowl empty, Crookshanks pawed Tom’s arm.

“Do we really have to keep the cat?” he asked Harry.

“He’s good with rats.”

“You know what else is excellent at dealing with rats?” Tom began. “A boa—”

Harry nestled more comfortably in his arms.

“No, Tom.”

* * *

Two weeks later, as they took their breakfast, Harry said, “I’m going to miss lunch. I’m taking my parents out.”

Tom stopped pouring tea into his cup.

“Your parents are alive?”

“Yep,” said Harry, and though it had occurred half-dozen times in earlier Lives, he still grinned. “They live in Godric’s Hollow.”

Tom set the pot down on its cozy.

“So you …”

“Grew up there. Yeah,” said Harry, grinning even wider. “It was great.”

Tom nodded tightly. “Where will you be taking them?”

“I was thinking Corinne, that new French bistro? It might be a stretch for Dad, but Mum will be ecstatic.”

“Do they know about me?”

“I’ve mentioned you.”

“And _how_ have you mentioned me?”

“I don’t say _we shag every other night_ , but they know you’re my —” Harry broke off, pinking.

Tom lifted an eyebrow. “They know I’m your …”

Harry cleared his throat and loudly ruffled the _Daily Prophet’s_ sport section.

“I didn’t catch that,” said Tom.

“Boyfriend,” Harry grunted, staying resolutely behind his paper.

“Boyfriend.” Tom tasted the word. “Is that what they call it these days? Do they expect to meet me?”

Harry reappeared, flattening the paper on top of his toast. “I didn’t want to freak you out, but they’ve been hounding me for weeks and honestly, I’ve been expecting them to just barge in through the floo at any second.”

“You’d like me to come to lunch?”

“Would you mind?”

Tom sipped his tea. “Noon?”

“Eleven-forty reservation.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

Though obviously relieved and happy Tom was coming, Harry said in confusion, “Won’t we head there together?”

“I have something to attend to early. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

* * *

In all their time spent together, Life after Life, Harry rarely talked about his parents. It was a delicate topic. Tom had only lived in close proximity to Lily and James once while they ran a ranch in Colorado, the same Life when Harry had, apparently, first harbored feelings for him. Tom spent the morning distracted, half paying attention to his surroundings as he tried to recall all that he could from that particular Life.

It had been short-lived. Three, four weeks, perhaps, before they’d fallen into that alligator trap while searching the bordering swamp for a lost baby dinosaur that’d wandered from the herd. Harry’s defect had been sleep walking and it had been a nightly ordeal keeping him to his bed. Tom, being a night owl, had spotted Harry walking the roof’s spine like a tightrope. 

Tom would never forget Lily and James in their dressing gowns down below, frantic and terrified and then so overwhelmingly grateful as he helped Harry get back down. From then on, they had treated Tom like a second son.

He … had enjoyed it.

As he entered the restaurant three hours later, spotting the small family before they spotted him, he felt strangely ill. This Life — the Potters catching up with their son over lunch — could have so easily been Harry’s from the start, but Tom, on a single night, had snatched it away.

He strode to their table and kissed Harry on the cheek. With a startled smile, Harry said, “I was just wondering if I should call the house.”

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long,” Tom apologized. “I got waylaid.”

He reached across the table and shook hands with Lily and James.

“Only a few minutes,” said Lily. “It’s so wonderful to finally get a face to go along with the name.”

“Harry talks about you more often than Quidditch,” James informed him. “And that’s saying something.”

Turning red, Harry attempted to change topics. “I’ve been told the oysters are good. Should we order a round?”

As he hastily flagged down a waiter, Lily turned to Tom and said, “This might sound strange, but I feel as if I know you already.”

“That’s not odd at all,” Tom replied. “I feel the same.”

* * *

Oysters and coq au vin and then a stupendous pear tart — Tom couldn’t have imagined the meal going better. It was easy being around the Potters, as easy as it had been on the ranch. Topics jumped and skittered around the table: Harry’s childhood (“We knew when he was six that he was going to be an archaeologist; asked for a shovel and then dug up the entire back yard.”); Tom’s poisonous garden (“Have you planted mandrakes? I put in a few last Fall and I haven’t seen a mole since.”) 

“So what got you tangled up?” Harry asked during a lull in conversation.

Tom set down his water goblet. “Dean.”

“Dean?” said Harry, nonplussed. “Dean Thomas? Why did you run into Dean?”

“I’m taking his class.”

Harry’s mouth fell open and Tom suspected that his mother kicked him sharply under the table for Harry jerked and snapped his mouth shut.

“You’re …” Harry tried again. “You’re taking …”

“Art, yes.”

“Oh!” said Lily, delighted. “What kind?”

“An introductory course, though Dean wants me to enroll in his advanced class. That’s why I was late. Apparently I have talent.”

“You’re taking art,” said Harry slowly. “Since when?”

“Today made three weeks.”

Harry gaped as if Tom had turned into cactus.

“Have you always been interested?” Lily asked.

“For a while, but I haven’t had the time until now.”

“What are you drawn to?” James asked. “Landscapes? Still life?”

“The human body,” Tom answered and though he did not turn to look, he knew Harry was blushing again.

* * *

“Move your left arm a little more forward. Incline your neck — excellent. Stay right there.”

It had taken far more persuading than he had expected, but Tom had finally managed to get Harry to pose for him.

“This isn’t for your class, right?” Harry asked.

“No,” said Tom. “I already finished that. _This_ is private.”

“Thank God,” Harry said under his breath. “I don’t need the entire Academy seeing my arse.”

Tom continued to sketch. “Even though it is a very fine arse.”

Already flushed, Harry grew rosier. He was entirely nude, lying on his stomach on their bed.

“Is your class often painting nude portraits?” he asked conversationally.

“It is rather frequent,” Tom replied. “When I first arrived to the class, the students thought I was the model and tried to help me take my clothes off.”

Harry laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. Would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Pose?”

“I believe _I’m_ the painter, Harry.”

Harry’s voice turned suddenly suggestive. “Well, _I’m_ naked. It only seems fair for you to be as well.” And he rolled onto his back.

“I told you not to—” Tom’s reprimand shriveled on his tongue at the sight of Harry’s erection.

“You said I could move if I got stiff,” said Harry lightly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Harry’s grin sharpened and keeping his eyes locked on Tom, he slowly began to masturbate.

Tom swallowed. “You are insufferable.”

Harry threw his head back, laughing, accentuating the length of his throat. Tom left his stool; he walked to the edge of the bed and Harry sat up.

“After this, will you promise to lie still?”

“Promise.” Harry unbuttoned Tom’s shirt, his hands panning down Tom’s sides as he placed open mouthed kisses on his chest and stomach. One hand slipped inside Tom’s trousers.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s gotten stiff,” Harry remarked as he worked Tom’s hardon. “This painting might take a lot longer than you were saying.”

Tom’s eyes drifted closed as Harry slid off the bed, kneeling before him and taking his cock into his mouth. His fingers carded through the mess that was always Harry’s hair as he bobbed. Just the thought of painting that hair made his blood thrum.

Before it became too much he stepped back, making Harry stop.

“Lie down again,” he told him. “On your stomach.”

Grinning, Harry did, bending one knee to give Tom better access. He climbed on top of Harry, kissing his shoulder blades. The bottle of oil was fished out of the drawer and his slicked fingers glossed down Harry’s spine. Harry’s breathing hitched as Tom probed his entrance, taking his time.

“Fuck,” Harry gasped, grinding his pelvis into the mattress. “Tom — come on.”

Tom crooked his finger, pressing it against the bundle of nerves inside Harry. Rocking his erection against Harry’s hip, he whispered into his ear, “Art takes time, darling.” He slipped in a second finger, wondering how long he could keep Harry dangling on the precipice.

In and out. In and out. Harry moved his hips in time to Tom’s fingers, rubbing himself firmly against the mattress before pressing back, sinking himself upon Tom and seeing Harry grind, fucking himself with nothing but fingers and sheets, it was Tom who couldn’t wait. It was Tom who couldn’t dangle. He kissed Harry’s shoulder again and shifted into position. When next Harry’s hips moved backward, it was Tom’s cock they pushed against.

As if they were one mind, they transitioned: Harry rose onto his knees and palms and Tom knelt. He kept the same slow, steady pace, but when Harry twisted his hips—

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tom gasped.

“Go faster,” Harry urged. His hands fisted the sheets.

But Tom didn’t want to go faster. The faster they fucked, the faster it would be over. He pulled out and Harry looked over his shoulder, startled.

“Tom — what?”

“I want to look at you.”

A delighted smile bloomed on Harry’s face. He lay down once more, this time on his back. They kissed. Tom entered him again, sinking down to the root. His thrusts were long and deep, as long and deep as their kiss. Harry moaned into his mouth and Tom wanted to swallow the sound. He took hold of Harry’s wrists, moving them above Harry’s head, pressing them into the mattress. His fingers rested on the pulse point.

He stopped.

He stopped kissing.

He stopped fucking.

Harry blinked up at him.

“What is it now?”

“Your pulse.”

“What about it?”

“It’s too fast.”

“ _Oh, for God’s sake—_ ”

But Tom was emphatic.

“You are not having a heart attack while I make love to you,” he snapped.

Harry blinked. “What did you say?”

“I _said_ , you are not having a heart attack while I —” Tom broke off, realizing the words he’d used. Harry’s smile grew.

“You said…”

“It’s just a phrase,” said Tom swiftly.

“You’ve never said it before,” Harry pointed out, his insufferable grin expanding.

Tom, who’d never been tongue-tied in his life, found himself grappling.

“I - It’s not — I didn’t — Stop smiling like that!”

Harry laughed and the sound was pure gold.

“How about you _make love_ to me and _I’ll_ make love to you. I swear, if I feel a heart attacking coming on, I’ll let you know.”

“You’re a cheeky bastard.”

“Technically, you’re the bastard,” Harry corrected and Tom’s chest flooded with affection. Harry was iridescent. His smile alone warmed Tom to his marrow.

“So,” Harry asked in a light tone that clashed with the heat in his gaze, “do we have a deal?”

Tom slipped his tongue inside Harry’s mouth, kissing him to breathlessness.

“ _Deal._ ”


	7. What Does Love Feel Like?

For the first time Tom did not yearn for he had everything he wanted; he had Harry. Days and weeks melded in a blissful haze. Harry posed for his portrait every evening and every morning Tom woke to the warmth of Harry’s body, spooned up against him. He drew him constantly, filling sketchbooks with lips, hands, ankles, shoulders. He spent an entire day absorbed in the perfect alignment of Harry’s spine. He felt that their original Lives belonged to strangers; that they had stumbled upon a sanctuary where problems of the past and worries of the future could not exist. They shriveled into nothing at the contact of their diamond-encrusted skin, for he and Harry were impervious. They were unbreakable.

Tom leaned back on his stool, studying the painting. He almost regretted his promise not to show Dean. One look and Tom knew the art professor would be raving. He’d been hinting for weeks to let him set up lunch meetings with agents. Tom added a few more specks of light to Harry’s throat, imagining Harry’s reaction to being hung up in an art gallery for the world to see.

The door to his study opened and Harry popped his head in.

“Why are you still painting? You were supposed to be ready ten minutes ago!”

Tom set his brush down. “I’m done.”

“You are?” Harry hesitated by the door for Tom had never allowed him to see it.

Tom lifted the canvas off its easel and held it so it faced Harry. He looked stunned.

“Wow.”

“Do you like it?”

“I — _wow_. Dean wasn’t kidding. You’re amazing.”

“You’re the one who’s amazing,” Tom corrected. “All I did was paint you.”

Harry let out an incredulous laugh. “Babe. I’m flattered, but that’s not me.”

“Yes, it is.”

Tongue-tied, Harry blushed down to his roots and then the doorbell rang, jolting him.

“ _Hide that_ ,” he hissed through a radiant smile before darting out of the room. A second later Tom heard Granger and Narcissa. Granger already sounded sharp and Narcissa icy. How Harry had gotten himself hosting a baby shower that would undoubtedly explode into a witch’s duel, Tom would never know.

* * *

As their house filled with Granger’s and Draco’s guests, Tom kept to the edges, astounded by the ridiculous charade unfolding before him. What infant would need eleven stuffed hippogriffs? Harry appeared by Tom’s side.

“It’s times like this that I’d really like a drink,” he said in a tense undertone.

“It’s going better than I thought,” Tom admitted. He had fully expected Narcissa and Lucius to pull the plug on their son’s marriage to Granger, but there they were, sitting stiffer than planks of wood on the couch next to Granger’s Muggle parents.

Harry checked his watch. “One more hour to go.”

“We’re on our last tray of cucumber sandwiches, by the way.”

Harry looked shell-shocked. “What? I made _eighty_.”

“This entire room’s stress eating. And we’re out of punch.”

“Bloody hell.”

“I’ll squeeze lemons, you peel cucumbers?”

But Harry didn’t respond. His eyes were on Granger as she held up yet another stuffed toy.

“An owl,” said Harry, a strange expression on his face. It was part sad, part happy. “Al had one just like that.”

“Al?”

Harry blinked rapidly, as if he was pulling himself back to the present. “Let’s get those sandwiches out.”

“Who is Al?” Tom pressed, closely following Harry as they wove through the throng to the kitchen.

“My son.”

“Your … son?”

“Yeah.” Harry pointed his wand at a heap of cucumbers. They leapt under the facet.

“I was not aware you had a child.”

“I had three, actually.” Harry set a knife to slicing while he rooted about in the fridge for cream cheese. “You gonna squeeze those lemons?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had children?”

“I don’t know … it never seemed worth bringing up.”

“I take it they were all in Gryffindor.”

“Two out of three. My second son — Al — was in Slytherin.”

“Was he swapped at birth?”

Harry laughed. “ _He_ thought he had been.” He put the cheese into a bowl and began mashing it with the back of a spoon. “My oldest was the go-getter. Always had to be in the middle of everything. Had to be the best.”

“Why wasn’t _he_ in Slytherin?”

“Too much of a dare devil. The number of times I got called to Hogwarts because he’d camped out in the Forbidden Forest or climbed the Quidditch goal posts … My youngest was the sweet one, but try to get her to do something she didn’t want to?” Harry laughed again. “ _Hell_ no. Getting potions down her was a nightmare.” Harry looked lost in memories. As a party cracker exploded in the main room, he came back himself. “I thought you were going to squeeze lemons?”

* * *

Two hours later, Harry slowly herded the last of the stragglers to the door.

“I haven’t seen you at the pitch in ages,” Angelina Johnson was saying.

“I’ve been busy,” Harry apologized.

“I’ve set up the team for tomorrow,” said Johnson, unrelenting, “but I’m down a Seeker.”

“Well …”

“How about ten?” Johnson pressed.

“Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

“Wonderful!”

“And don’t forget to send me that punch recipe,” Anthony Goldstein reminded him.

“I’ll put Tom right on it.”

On the couch, blocked from view, Tom snorted.

“Bye — yes, Saturday — I’ll be there — Thank you for coming!” The door finally closed and Tom looked over his shoulder. Harry was slouched against the frame.

“If I ever think about agreeing to something like that again, kick me.”

He collapsed beside Tom on the couch, propping his feet up on the coffee table. Crookshanks, realizing the coast was finally clear, peeked around the corner and sped to Tom’s armchair where he curled into a tight ball.

“Merlin, I’m knackered,” Harry sighed. His head fell back against the cushions.

“Better rest up. You’ve got Quidditch tomorrow.”

Harry groaned. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’re thirty-one.”

“Exactly.”

Tom laughed.

“I don’t know what Hermione’s thinking, being with Draco,” said Harry suddenly. “She can’t stand Narcissa and Lucius. She hates all that elitist claptrap. I know her. They’re on their good behavior now for the baby, but give it a year and they’ll all be at St. Mungo’s with radishes stuffed in their ears. At least they don’t live in Wiltshire. The marriage wouldn’t have lasted a week if she’d agreed to live at Malfoy Manor. Poor Pansy,” he added.

“Were Granger and Weasley a better couple?” Tom asked.

“Well … I mean … they still had fights. Everybody does.”

“Did you and your wife fight often?”

“Me and Ginny? Sometimes. Mostly about stupid things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Work, mainly. She was away a lot of the year with the league — she played Chaser for the Holly-Head Harpies — and my hours at the Ministry were all over the place. And even though she insisted she was happy I was an Auror, I knew she worried about me. It got easier when she retired and I got promoted to head of the department.”

“And then you had children?”

“Yeah.” Harry sat up straighter. “Why are you asking?”

Tom shrugged. Making sure to keep his voice light and uncaring, as if this was a subject he found incredibly mundane, he said, “Seems odd that you never bothered to mention them until now.”

“I didn’t think my family was a subject you’d find interesting,” said Harry.

“Do you have a preference?” Tom asked still in that same light tone.

“What?”

“Me or them? Which do you prefer?”

“I — this isn’t … I don’t have to choose.”

“Yes, you do,” said Tom, the lightness turning sharp. “Whom do you prefer?”

“I don’t prefer one over the other,” said Harry.

“You have to.”

“No, I don’t,” Harry snapped back. “Ginny and the kids were a part of my life. _A part_. You’re another. One doesn’t have to be better than the other for it to be important to me.”

“So I’m not better.”

“That isn’t want I—”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“I’m not erasing them,” said Harry, frustrated. “I’m sorry if that’s what you want. So I had a life that didn’t include you. The same goes for you! Why can’t you accept that and be happy with what we have?”

“Because it’s obvious that you miss them!”

“Of course I miss them!” said Harry. “I loved them!”

They had left the couch, standing two feet apart, voices rising dangerously. In Tom’s armchair, Crookshanks unwound himself, staring.

“If you loved them then why don’t you go back to them?” Tom shouted.

“Because I’m in love with you now, you fucking moron!” Harry roared.

Jolted, Tom’s voice was snatched. In the silence that fell, an uncertain voice asked: “Erm … is this a bad time?”

Harry looked down at the fireplace. Ron Weasley’s head was in the crackling flames.

“I can call back at a better—”

“What does love feel like?”

Harry’s attention jerked back to Tom, and Weasley said in a panicked squeak, “Talk to you later, Harry!” and vanished from the fire.

“It’s …” Harry considered his words. “It’s like I’m carrying around my own miniature sun. Right here.” He placed a palm on his chest, over his heart. “Just the thought of you or seeing you makes me feel warm. It’s like being drunk without drinking. I’m both overwhelmed and jittery but also incredibly peaceful, like I’m floating. You’re always on my mind. If someone tells a stupid joke, I’ll think, _I’ve got to tell Tom that_. There’s never a moment when I don’t want to touch you or be with you. It’s all those things and more. It’s … happiness.”

As Tom stared, Harry swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. He rubbed his hands on his trousers, looking anywhere but at Tom.

“It’s a mess in here,” he mumbled and began picking up dirty plates.

“Harry.”

“Yes?”

“I have something I need to tell you.”

A fork slid off the stack of plates and Harry quickly caught it before it hit the floor.

“What’s that?”

“I love you, too.”

It took a full second for the words to sink in.

“You do?” Harry whispered.

“I do.”

The corners of Harry’s smile quivered. He bit his bottom lip. Tom took his face in his hands and kissed him and though this was possibly the hundredth kiss or maybe the thousandth, it felt like the very first one. 

* * *

With dirty dishes and torn present wrappings all around them, he and Harry lay spent on the floor, naked. Crookshanks had returned to his nap long ago and hadn’t even twitched an ear when, in their frantic fucking, they’d rolled off the couch. Tom slipped his hand under Harry’s wrist.

Harry’s lips quirked. “Checking my pulse again?”

“It’s just as important to monitor it while you’re relaxed,” Tom reminded him. “Honestly, Harry. What would you do without me?”

“I’m sure I’d be an _absolute_ mess.”

“Precisely.”

Grinning, Harry tucked himself into Tom’s side. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“While I’m reliving puberty for the umpteenth time, where are you? What’s happening to you?”

Surprised, Tom replied, “I thought you already knew.”

“I’ve got a picture,” Harry admitted, “but I don’t really know. Tell me. Please.”

Tom stared up at the ceiling, taking time to answer. “I don’t know where I go. It’s not a _place_ exactly. It’s more like … time. _I’m_ time. I’m the past, present and future, all at once. I’m every moment; every feeling — but they aren’t just my feelings. They’re everyone else’s. Everyone I killed, to be specific. I feel them as if I am them. The pain is incredible.”

Tom looked back at Harry to find his eyes full of tears.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” said Tom at once.

“No,” said Harry firmly. “I wanted to know. I’ll get you out quicker.”

“Harry, it’s alright.”

“No, it isn’t,” he said angrily. “I waste so much _time._ Nobody lets a kid wander off across the globe. Fucking school. I always end up in fucking school.”

“I don’t know how long we’d last being destitute on the street,” Tom pointed out. “The only reason we last at all in these Lives is because you take care of things. You make sure there’s a place for me. That takes time. You’re always looking out for me. No one’s ever —” He stopped. “I’ve never _let_ anyone,” he corrected. “I’ve never let anyone look out for me. I’ve never let anyone close enough. Not until _you._ And the truth is I like it. So go to fucking school.”

Harry burst into watery laughter, and finally roused from his slumber, Crookshanks jumped from Tom’s armchair and wound around them, yowling for food.

* * *

On the sixth day of June, Tom woke to find himself alone. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up.

“Morning,” said Harry brightly, entering the bedroom with a laden breakfast tray. Crookshanks followed, leaping onto the bed and head-butting Tom’s foot before flopping onto his side, purring loudly. Tom would never admit it to Harry, but he was growing fond of the flat-faced, orange ball of fuzz.

Tom sat up straighter as Harry set the tray on his lap.

“What’s all this?”

“Breakfast,” said Harry.

Tom narrowed his eyes. Harry had never made him breakfast in bed.

“You’re up to something.”

Harry climbed onto the bed and wrapped his arms around Tom’s stomach as he settled behind him.

“Can’t I fix my boyfriend breakfast?”

“ _Harry._ ”

“Okay. Draco took the time to remind me that I’m a week late in telling the Academy where my next dig is going to be. They have this whole annoying bureaucratic system — something about funds and peace treaties. Anyway. I want _you_ to pick.” From the waist band of his underwear, Harry whipped out a handful of colorful pamphlets.

Tom took them. “You want me to choose?”

Harry kissed a trail up Tom’s neck. “Yeah.”

Tom sifted through them. “Morocco, Venezuela … What exactly will you be looking for?”

Harry shrugged. “Anything. Everything. I found a lot of stuff in the years I was looking for you. Prehistoric dragon bones. Goblin battle armor dating back to the second century. A staff that turned anyone who touched it into a flowering azalea. I made sure to pick places with the best food.”

“Don’t you live on site?”

“God, no,” said Harry with a laugh. “Technically, I’m _supposed_ to, but one year of camping was enough to do me in for a lifetime. For _multiple_ lifetimes, actually. I always stay at the closest inn or hotel and commute. Helps being the head guy.”

“In that case.” Tom held up one of the pamphlets.

“Italy? Nice. I would have bet you’d choose France. I’ll let Hermione and Draco know.”

As Harry clambered off the bed, Tom said, “Didn’t Granger just have her baby? Won’t she be staying in England?”

“You kidding? They’re bringing Lyra along.”

Things clicked into place.

“ _That’s_ why you made me breakfast.”

“Guilty,” Harry confessed apologetically. “Did it work?”

Tom took in the sight of his perfectly poached eggs. “It worked.”

Harry beamed and left the room, heading to the fireplace to make the call but another revelation clicked in Tom’s brain.

“As long as I’m not babysitting,” he shouted after Harry. “I don’t babysit. Harry? Harry, did you hear me?”

He moved the tray off his lap and hurried after him, leaving Crookshanks to sniff his toast curiously.

* * *

The plans were made, the trip approved, the hotel booked, the luggage packed. Even with magic to ease the process, it was still tedious and exhausting to prepare for being away for four months.

“Might even be longer if we find anything,” Harry told him.

Crookshanks did not make their packing easier. He was repeatedly spotted snatching clothing from suitcases and squirreling them under the bed and would swat at their hands when they tried to retrieve them.

“You’ll like Italy,” Harry grunted as he and the cat fought over a dinner shirt.

“You could leave him here,” Tom reminded him, not for the first time. “Dean offered to check in on him.”

Harry lost, and like a hermit crab, Crookshanks shimmied back under the bed with his prize.

“We’ve got to take him,” said Harry as the shirt’s sleeve slithered from sight. “Four months is too long.”

“Have it your way,” said Tom. “Might need to pack extra Dittany for the scratches.”

“Don’t I know it,” Harry grumbled. Getting back to his feet, he suddenly swayed, clutching the bedpost.

Tom was at his side in a second. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, giving his head a little shake. “Just tired.”

“You don’t have to go to the dinner.”

“ _I_ don’t have to go to the dinner that’s literally in honor of my discovery of Salazar Slytherin’s tomb? Draco would kill me and then Hermione and then Draco again. I’m going.”

* * *

The dinner was held at Hogwarts. As he walked up the sloping lawn up to the towering double doors, Tom felt the same as he had when he was eleven. Beside him, Harry’s hand slipped in his.

“I take it you were sorted into Gryffindor again,” said Tom.

“Actually …”

“Harry, my boy!” Down the front steps, Horace Slughorn trotted. “So good to have you back! So good!” 

Tom’s eyebrows rose as Slughorn pulled Harry into a bear hug.

Harry managed to extract himself. “Professor, I’d like to introduce you to Tom Riddle. Tom, Professor Slughorn was my head of house.”

“Your head of house?” Tom repeated slowly.

“And a fine example of Slytherin House he is!” Slughorn commended, clapping Harry on the back, cheeks rosy, walrus mustache billowing. “I always knew you’d find the tomb. I never doubted it. Not for a moment.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, Professor.”

As Slughorn wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulders and steered him up the steps, Harry gave Tom a little wink and, shaking his head in amazement, Tom followed them into the Great Hall. Aglow with thousands of floating candlesticks, the hall was just as Tom remembered it. Even the smells were etched into Tom’s brain. The house tables had been removed for the occasion, replaced instead with circular tables and delicate chairs. Quite quickly, he and Harry grew separated as philosophers and scholars from around the globe sought Harry’s audience, but Harry somehow always managed to slip away, returning to Tom, pulling him to meet old school friends and teachers. It was like being in a well-choreographed dance, he and Harry spinning just out of reach of Slughorn and Draco.

Ringing bells sounded, making everyone in the hall turn toward the front where the staff table resided. Once more Headmaster, Dumbledore lowered his wand and the tiny bells waggling in midair around his head stopped.

“This is a most joyous occasion,” he began. “With tremendous persistence and determination, our own Harry Potter achieved what historians claimed impossible.”

Harry’s hand grabbed Tom’s, squeezing it hard. He turned, expecting to share another secret smile, but the moment he faced Harry, he knew something was wrong.

“Harry?”

“Please give a warm welcome to Harry Potter!”

The hall burst into applause, head’s swiveling back to where Harry and Tom stood.

“Harry!” Tom shouted as Harry’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped, unconscious in Tom’s arms.

* * *

Harry was at St Mungo’s for an hour, long enough for the Potters to rush into his room to hear the verdict, white as ghosts. Cedric Diggory, dressed in Healer robes, stood at the foot of the bed. Tom tried to pay attention, but he could have had Dumbledore’s bells trapped inside his skull for the ringing in his ears.

Worsened condition; bed rest; re-evaluated potion dosages.

“We can try to—”

“No,” said Harry sharply, ending the discussion before it began.

Unbridled relief spread over Lily and James.

“I understand,” said Diggory. “I’ll get your potions in order.”

As Diggory excused himself, Lily and James moved closer to the bed.

“You’re sure you don’t want to stay overnight?” James asked.

“I’m sure,” said Harry, rising from the bed; Tom quickly assisted him.

Half the guests from the dinner waited for them down below. The moment they appeared, the bottom steps were swarmed, Granger and Draco in the lead.

“Are you all right?” Granger asked, worn with worry.

“Just tired.”

And he looked it. The short stretch of hall and stairs alone had Harry short of breath.

“What did the healers say?” asked Draco.

“That he needs rest,” said Tom. “Excuse us.”

The crowd shifted enough to let them through. Lily and James followed to the cottage, helping Harry into bed, but all too soon it became apparent that there was nothing for them to do.

“I’m okay,” Tom heard Harry telling them from the bedroom as he stood in the kitchen, staring at nothing. “Really.”

Gently, but firmly, Harry succeeded in convincing his parents to leave.

“Let us know how he is in the morning?” Lily asked at the door.

Tom nodded. Eyes glistening, Lily did something she had only done once four Lives previously: She lunged at Tom, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tight.

“I’m so happy he has you.”

James eased his wife off Tom.

“The treatment Diggory mentioned,” Tom asked as Lily mopped up her face, “what was it?”

“It was experimental,” said James with his arm around his wife’s waist. “Everything got experimental when it came to Harry. Nothing worked. Even Muggle surgeries that helped patients who had the same condition — they all failed, causing more problems than he already had. He once got so sick we thought we’d…” He couldn’t continue.

“We thought we’d killed him,” Lily finished, brittle. “After that, we stuck with the potions that were helping rather than try to fix his heart. Honesty, it was a relief.”

* * *

A relief.

Tom was as far away from relief as it was possible to be. He was lost in a sea of rage. Why had he wasted all these months? He could have been finding a solution for Harry’s heart. He felt slapped awake, jolted out of a dream.

Harry slept through the night and through the next day, unaware of the owls clogging up their windows, delivering cards and flowers and get-well baskets. Tom put a block on the fireplace, furious that people kept floo-calling.

_Wishing you well_ , the cards read. _Get better soon! We love you, Harry._

Unable to reach Tom through the fire, Granger appeared on their doorstep shortly after lunch.

“I just wanted you to know that I’ve canceled the reservation,” she said and after Tom had stared at her for a full second, she added, “Italy. Draco and I are leaving for the dig. I wanted Harry to know that we’ll oversee it. He doesn’t need to worry.”

Italy. They were supposed to be in Italy tonight. Tom had completely forgotten.

“Thank you.”

“Is he…?”

“Asleep.”

Granger nodded tightly. “I’ll send weekly updates, keeping him abreast with the excavations.”

“Likewise.”

Granger’s eyes blinked rapidly and Tom feared that she would dissolve into tears like Lily had, but she clutched her cloak firmer about her shoulders and Disapparated.

* * *

Afternoon ticked into evening and still Harry slept. Crookshanks followed Tom as he paced the house, the ever present shadow. There _had_ to be a solution. Tom entered his study and pulled down every Muggle medical journal he’d pinched from the library. Shoving brushes and paints off his desk, he set to work. Harry’s heart had a small problem with its mitral valve. It was too narrow, reducing the amount of blood pumped. All that needed to be done was widen it. Already, half a dozen spells sprang into Tom’s mind. He snatched up a quill and sketch paper.

“Tom?”

Tom looked up from his work. Harry stood in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t be up. Go back to bed.”

Harry moved into the study, his eyes on the textbooks. “What are you doing?”

“Research. Now get into —”

“Tom, you know you can’t fix me. My defects—”

“ _Don’t_ call them that,” Tom snarled. He turned back to his notes. “If I hadn’t wasted so much time I would have already healed you. I can’t believe I actually relied on _Diggory_. He hasn’t done anything.”

“Cedric’s made my condition very comfortable,” Harry disagreed, frowning. “He was the one to get the potions correct.”

“You have a simple condition,” Tom gritted. “All I need to do is find a —”

Harry knelt by his side and placed a hand over his arm, making him stop scribbling.

“You know that’s not how this works,” he said quietly. “They’re not treatable. They never have been, no matter how many pills I take or how much therapy—”

“This Life is different,” said Tom fiercely. “We have magic now. We’ll … we’ll go to Nicolas Flamel!” That was it. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? “We’ll get the Elixir of Life!”

“That won’t work.”

“It will!” Tom insisted, still astounded by the simple, obvious solution. “There’s no reason why it won’t.” And he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment to draft a letter.

“I know it won’t work because I’ve already tried it.”

Tom’s hand paused over the inkwell.

“What?”

Harry took a great breath.

“Three years ago I got really sick.”

“Your parents told me.”

Harry looked as if he expected as much. “It was so bad I worried I wouldn’t last long enough to find you. It scared me, so I went to Flamel and told him everything. All of it. I don’t think he believed me, but he said it was the best story he’d heard all century. He gave me a cup. It didn’t work. He kept trying — it really upset him — but it never had any effect on me.” Harry looked up into Tom’s face. “We’re breaking the rules, the two of us. We’re not supposed to be able to do any of this. I’m supposed to move on and you’re supposed to stay in your purgatory. Of course there are repercussions, but I don’t care. I’ll keep coming back for you, because I’d rather have just a minute with you than an eternity without you.” His hold tightened on Tom’s arm. “Please don’t go chasing after a cure we both know won’t do any good. Let’s live what we have left.”

Tom was shaking. He couldn’t breathe. He felt that a giant held him in its grasp, squeezing him to the breaking point.

“I — I don’t — I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered.

Harry pulled Tom to him. He slid to the floor, held in Harry’s arms. Regret and anger and pain spilled out of him. Harry didn't speak a word. He didn’t need to. His embrace was enough.

**oOo**

“That’s actually rather good.”

With his back resting against Tom’s chest, Harry wasn’t sure if Tom was kidding him or not.

“He looks like he’s plotting our murder.”

“Crookshanks always looks like he’s plotting our murder,” said Tom.

They were sitting on the bed and Harry had his very own sketchpad propped on his knees. Tom was teaching him how to draw and Harry’s first subject sat in the chair by the window.

As Harry attempted to make Crookshanks look slightly less bloodthirsty, Tom rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

“I agreed to the gallery.”

Harry’s pencil slipped on the paper. He twisted around in Tom’s arms.

“You did? When?”

“This morning. I already have a buyer.”

“For which one? How much? You’re not selling the first one. Or the boat one. I love the boat one.”

Tom chuckled and Harry’s stomach swooped. He loved it when Tom laughed like that, deep in his throat.

“They’re yours,” he told him. “I’m only filling the gallery with pieces that don’t include your face, but your neck” — he kissed the skin beneath Harry’s ear — “your collarbone, your shoulders …”

Harry laughed as Tom’s lips traveled over him. “I get the idea.”

“Do you?” Tom whispered, kissing his cheek. “Being my muse, you should know the details.”

“True. Tell me more.”

Tom overturned him, pinning him to the bed, placing open-mouthed kisses down his shirt while slipping a hand under the fabric. Harry laughed again as Tom kissed his belly button, dipping in his tongue, and suddenly the laugh turned into a heaving cough as his lungs seized. The violence of the fit took him by surprise. Tom gave him room, letting him roll onto his side to clear his lungs. When it finally stopped, he wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. Alarmed, Crookshanks had bolted.

“Did I kill the mood?” he asked, lungs heaving.

Tom’s smile was small. He kissed his forehead.

* * *

Not for the first time, Harry experienced the peculiar sensation that time had downed five pots of coffee and was sprinting for the finish line. His thirty-second birthday came and went. Ron traveled all the way from New Zealand and they spent a full week fishing and blaring Quidditch on the radio. Hermione popped in every other week with a collection of treats from Italy and news from the excavation. His condition continued to worsen. The potions had difficulty keeping up with the fluid flooding his lungs. Nights were the worst. Harry once suggested moving to the spare bedroom after a particularly long night, but Tom squashed the idea with enough ferocity that Harry never brought it up again. Dizzy spells, fatigue, rapid palpitations even when he was lying down, but Harry insisted that life continue as normal as possible. He joined his parents for their weekly afternoon tea, taking the floo rather than Apparating; he kept up with Saturday Quidditch, refereeing and then score-keeping; he joined Tom at the opening night of his gallery. Harry had been swept away, stunned speechless as the paintings Tom had created hung before him, a tapestry of memories. 

Overcome, Harry retreated to the bathroom. He thought Tom hadn’t seen him, but the door swung open and —

“Harry?”

Harry opened the stall’s door. Tom was startled by the state of him. He was beside him instantly.

“Why are you crying? Is it your heart?”

Harry shook his head, knowing how much of a mess he must be.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. What’s wrong?”

Three months ago Tom had been in just the same position, with tears and snot and so much fear and pain that Harry had swallowed his own, but he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“I don’t want this to end,” Harry admitted, voice breaking.

But all ends came. Immune to wishes and pleads, time marched to its unrelenting drum and on a cloudless morning in late January, it came for Harry.

_I’ll find you. I’ll find you._

“I know.”

Had Tom said those words? Harry wasn’t sure. He had died so many times now that it seemed like second nature. Sirius had been right all along. It really was as easy as drifting off to sleep.


	8. Rome Can Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grab the popcorn cuz this is a looong chapter. This is actually the final (!!) chapter. I’ll be posting a very short epilogue in the ‘chapter 9 slot’ today as well, so if you don’t see it, refresh your browser. Also, there is some Italian in this chapter and I don’t know Italian, meaning I utilized Google Translate. If you are fluent in Italian and see that I used an improper spelling, word or phrasing, please let me know.

Harry was used to bizarre things happening to him. Bad luck followed him like a bad joke. The day he decided to walk to the drug store rather than take the bus, it downpoured the entire way, causing Snape, the cantankerous owner, to be even more awful than usual when Harry dripped all over his floor; the last four girls he’d chatted up in bars — all lesbian; and just last week, scoring the winning ticket in the _Daily Mail’s_ See the World draw. The last one, according to his friends, was the opposite of bad luck, but Harry would wait until he returned safely back to his flat before getting his hopes up. After all, the plane could still crash.

Harry _hated_ flying. It’s why a once-in-a-lifetime, all-expenses-paid, first-class-extravaganza left him nerve-racked. He even attempted to pass the ticket along to someone else, but no one was having it, not even Snape. No one would let him back out. Flying. Why did he have to _fly_? He wouldn’t have gotten on the plane if Ron and Hermione hadn’t frogmarched him into the airport.

“You’ll be fine,” Hermione had soothed. “You’re going to have so much fun!”

Fun? What was fun about 200 metal tons blasting off into the sky?

But they had shoved him through the boarding terminal and there really wasn’t anywhere else to go after that, so he’d swallowed a sleeping pill. Now, hours later, sitting on the majestic Hogwarts Express, Harry tried to relax, but it was difficult. Only ten minutes ago, while still on the platform before the steaming, red locomotive, Harry had nearly been knocked flat as a man in a tan overcoat barreled into him. He hadn’t even apologized, plowing on through the crowd, but he had shot Harry a tense glance over his shoulder. As the scenic Italian countryside swept past his windows, Harry pushed the memory away. This trip, as Hermione kept repeating, was supposed to be _fun_. All he needed was a drink to wash away the unpleasant start to his month-long vacation. He left his carriage and headed down the narrow, swaying corridor to the dining car.

The Hogwarts Express was a small, luxury travel enterprise and as Harry settled at a vacant, white clothed table, he wondered who was dining around him. Movie stars? High-powered lawyers? Race horse owners? Ginny would know the celebrities; Hermione would spot the philanthropists; Ron would have convulsions over the soccer stars. Harry wished they were here.

Not long after taking his seat, a waitress appeared at his table. Harry thought she was rather good looking.

“What can I get for you, sir?” she asked.

“Erm … a glass of” — he quickly scanned the drinks menu — “Gewürztraminer.”

“Lovely choice, sir,” said the waitress — Parvati — according to the rectangular, silver name tag pinned to her lapel. “Anything else?”

_Your number?_

“No, thank you,” Harry replied. Best not push his luck. With his running streak, she was probably gay too.

Smiling, she left his table. Maybe he should just give up dating. It wasn’t like his Aunt or Uncle cared whether he died alone.

“Alone?” he imagined Ron blurting indignantly. “What d’you call Hermione and me? Lint?”

Relationships came easy to some people and for others … well, what would be the harm in calling it quits? Or at least to not care so bloody much. What if he went to quiz night and _didn’t care_ that he was the only one without a date? What if, instead of stewing that even Neville Fucking Longbottom had landed a girl, he actually enjoyed a pint?

But he was on _vacation_. He wasn’t supposed to be stewing about anything. Harry took a deep breath. Here he was on a first class train ride through Italy and what was he doing? Picking at old scars. Hermione would be ashamed of him.

Deciding to get more comfortable, Harry took off his jacket and noticed something clunk in one of the pockets. Perplexed, he dug inside it and pulled out a heavy, golden locket. He’d never seen it before and he had no idea how it had come to reside there.

The person on the boarding platform … the person who had run into him … had they slipped this to Harry? But why? Surely, it had to have been an accident, even though Harry couldn’t quite picture just how such an accident would have transpired.

He glanced furtively at the other diners around him, but they weren’t paying him any attention. He opened the locket. It did not contain a photo; instead an inscription ran across the inside. It was written in the strangest scribble — jagged and serpentine — but Harry, though he didn’t know _how_ , knew instinctively what it read.

“ _Memento Mori_ ,” he mumbled, squinting at the tiny writing. “That’s morbid.”

“Isn’t it?”

Harry jumped, dropping the locket onto the table. The chair opposite him was now occupied by a man and he was … he was …

Growing hot around the collar, Harry sat straighter in his chair.

“I’m sorry?” he said to the stranger.

The stranger — artfully clipped black hair, gray eyes, pale, smooth skin, lips too perfectly proportioned to be human — lifted one eyebrow.

“The inscription,” he said, glancing at the locket.

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Morbid.”

The stranger’s lips quirked into a smile. Harry fully expected him to leave, but was instead rendered speechless as the man propped both elbows onto the tabletop, leaned forward and stated, “ _Merlin, you’re spellbinding._ ”

Harry’s mouth dropped open.

“Here you are, sir.” Parvati had returned. She set Harry’s wine glass down before him and turned to the man. “May I get anything for you, sir?”

The man glanced at Harry’s glass and then said to Parvati, “Bring back a bottle of that.”

Parvati brightened. “Very good, sir.”

The moment her back was turned, the man asked Harry in that same friendly, comfortable manner, as if they’d been chums their entire lives, “Is it good?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replied jerkily, deeply unnerved. “I haven’t tried it.”

And to Harry’s deep consternation, the stranger reached out one long-fingered hand — maybe he was a piano player? — picked up the wine glass and took a sip. He let it linger on his tongue for a moment.

“Not bad.” He smiled again and it reached his eyes. “Why don’t we take this somewhere more private? We can catch up on things later. Right now,” he said, gaze piercing, “I am _dying_ to get you out of those clothes.”

Harry’s brain froze and then sputtered back into life.

“ _What did you say?_ ”

“Now don’t be a prude,” said the man with affection. “Doing it on a train will be fun.”

Harry shot to his feet. He bolted, speeding out of the dining car at such a pace that he nearly sent Parvati flying as she made to return with the stranger’s wine. Back in his carriage, he slammed the door shut, yanked down the blind and locked the door.

_Oh my fucking God._

Who the hell was that guy? Harry had little experience in being propositioned, but to be hit on by a _bloke_.

Nerves-frayed, Harry collapsed in a seat. As long as he stayed in here he’d be fine. He checked his watch; just an hour to go until Florence. He was confident he’d lose the man in the train station and wouldn’t see him again.

* * *

When he’d won his ticket, he’d been mailed an exhaustive itinerary which Hermione had snatched from his hands before he’d even opened the envelope.

“Direct flight from London to Milan and then a winding train ride down to Florence!” she read, nose inches from the letter. “Harry, they’re taking you to Rome and Naples and —” she gasped. “You’re getting your own _private villa_ in Roccapalumba!”

“Gesundheit,” Ron had snickered.

“Where’s that?” Harry had asked, overwhelmed.

“Sicily!”

* * *

Outside the Florence train station a taxi driver held a sign with his name. After a hair-raising drive through the city, Harry was deposited at his hotel. Luggage unloaded and wanting to stretch his legs, Harry returned to the city streets with maps and tourist guides and Hermione’s color coded places-to-go list, but quite quickly Harry became lost. Causing Italians to side step him, he turned the map upside down. Maybe he should have taken a left at that sandwich shop. Nose buried, Harry turned, intending to backtrack, and collided straight into someone.

“Shit! Sorry!”

Harry’s face fell as he saw who he’d bumped into.

“It was my fault,” apologized the stranger from the train. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Recognition came over the man’s face. “We met on the Hogwarts Express.”

Harry grunted stiffly in reply. He attempted to make a hasty retreat, but the street was so crowded that Harry’s escape was blocked on all sides.

“I’m so happy to have run into you,” the man went on, looking relieved. “I’ve been feeling like such a prat. I was meeting a friend on the train, you see, and confused him for you. I really am sorry if I embarrassed you.”

“How would you confuse me for your friend?” Harry asked, forgetting for a moment his desire to get away.

“We haven’t actually met face to face. We’ve been corresponding and the train was where we were supposed to meet for the first time. I truly am sorry. I think I made you uncomfortable.”

But part of that story didn’t add up. “You’ve _never_ seen his face?”

“Colin enjoys mystery. It sounds a bit ridiculous now. It’s a game we —” The man stopped and cleared his throat. “A game we _used_ to play. He wasn’t on the train.”

“He could have been delayed. Have you called him?”

“Yes,” said the man. “He made it perfectly clear that it’s over.”

“That’s awful.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the man with a stiff-upper-lip. “I’m sure I can make do on my own. I just wanted to say sorry. I know I shook you.”

“I was fine,” Harry lied, brushing off the embarrassing episode like it had been nothing. “I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”

The man took Harry’s hand, shaking it, and his fingers were so long that they practically wrapped around Harry’s wrist.

“Tom Riddle. I suppose I should let you get back to your sightseeing.” And to Harry’s surprise, the man walked away.

“Hey!”

Tom turned.

“I’m lost,” Harry admitted. “Could you help me?”

Smiling, Tom took the map from Harry. He was very tall. Harry just came up to his shoulder.

“I’m trying to get to the Uffizi,” Harry explained, “but I keep getting turned around.”

Tom consulted the map for less than a second before announcing, “This way.” and striding down the street.

Taken by surprise again, Harry scampered after the man.

“You could just point me—”

“It’s no bother,” said Tom cheerfully. “I want to make up for what I said on the train.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Is this your first time in Italy?” Tom asked.

“Yeah. First time I’ve been outside of England. You?”

“I’ve been to other countries, but not Italy.”

“Really? Where?”

Albania, France, Germany, New York, Minsk, Ireland, Colorado … Harry was astounded.

“Are you a travel junkie?” he asked.

Tom laughed and Harry, who found himself staring, pretended to quickly study a passing food cart.

“It’s mainly been work related.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a painter.”

“Really? I was going to guess pianist.”

“Pianist?”

“Your hands. They … I mean, I don’t know anything, but they — you know — seem like … pianist hands,” Harry fumbled, growing hot. “Paint anything I know?” he asked, far too loud, which made him blush even more. Christ. What was wrong with him?

“My last show was a lifetime ago. That’s actually how I got acquainted with Colin. He bought my Boy in Boat piece.”

“He bought your art and then dumped you?” said Harry, revolted. “Scumbag.”

“Yes, I can see that now,” Tom admitted and he looked so disappointed that Harry wished to cheer him up.

“Maybe you can paint a new one and call it Colin, Beheaded.”

Tom smiled and it was as broad as the one he’d worn when Harry first saw him on the train.

“I rather like that.”

“I’m not the best with dating either,” said Harry. “I’m thinking of throwing in the towel myself.”

“A handsome man like you?” Tom scoffed. “Ridiculous. You simply haven’t met the right person.”

“You sound like a friend of mine.”

“Is this the same friend who used eight different highlighters?” Tom asked, pulling Hermione’s list from the folds of the map in his hands.

“That’s the one! You should have seen the study schedules she used to make for me and Ron — Ron’s my other best friend. We’ve known each other since school.”

For the first time since winning the draw, Harry found himself happy. It wasn’t just the flight he’d been dreading, it was the fact that he would be going alone. Harry hadn’t wanted to travel without his two best friends and now, against all odds, he found himself striding through Florence with a stranger who didn’t feel like stranger at all. In fact, Harry felt that he’d known Tom Riddle all his life.

Florence was suddenly bright and beautiful.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Harry asked after they’d been walking for half an hour.

“The Uffizi’s right there.”

Startled, Harry looked around. Their street appeared blocked, so congested with people that no one was moving at all. He stood on tiptoes, trying to look over heads.

“I don’t see it.”

“That’s because we’re in line.”

“This is a _line_?”

Tom crossed his arms, looking at Harry amused.

“Did you think you could just stroll into one of the greatest museums in the world?”

“Well … I mean …” In truth, he hadn’t thought about it at all, choosing it simply because it was the first stop on Hermione’s list. “I didn’t think the line would be _this_ long,” he amended, attempting to save face.

Tom laughed and Harry liked the sound of it.

**oOo**

Tom wanted to kiss each smile Harry gave him, but he resisted. Resistance was the name of the game for this Life and Tom already felt himself buckling under the strain. He took a slightly closer step to Harry as the line inched forward. Pretending to breathe in the Italian air, his head spun as wormwood filled his nostrils.

Out of every defect Tom imagined Harry having, amnesia had never graced the list, but the instant Harry had fled the dining car, Tom had known. Everything they’d experienced, everything they’d felt for one another — gone. His not so subtle hints of their pasts — Creevey, Harry’s favorite portrait: Nothing. For another man, the pain would have been too great to bear, but Tom wasn’t the sort to give up. He would win Harry over again, simple as that, and they’d make new memories. Already Harry was warming up to him. Tom even took the fact that they were in Italy, the country they’d planned on visiting before everything had unraveled, as a positive sign.

Go gently, tread lightly and Tom would have those lips again.

It had been a long time since a Life required his thievery, and if Tom was to be honest, he relished the thrill. It had taken no time at all to hunt down enough plump purses and wallets. It was deep in summer, 1987, and stagnantly non-magical. He’d dogged Harry’s steps from the train station, following him to a handsome hotel that overlooked a piazza with a gushing fountain. Tom had immediately booked the hotel opposite the square, taking care to make sure to rent a room that faced Harry’s. He would need to buy binoculars before the day was done.

“So what brings you to Italy?” Tom asked. Truth be told, it surprised him that Harry was traveling alone.

“Won it in the _Daily Mail’s_ See the World draw.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I’ve never bothered before, but … I don’t know. Something came over me. Ron and his brothers — they’ve been putting their names down every year and I got it on my first try. They were pissed.”

“Something came over you?” Tom repeated. The words slid off his tongue with greater reverence than how Harry had uttered them.

“Yeah. Weird, huh?”

_Oh, Harry._

Lives and Lives and Lives ago, as they sailed through space, Harry had explained it all to him. _Before I release you, I have this second sense … like I’m inside the Horcrux, looking out. It’s a constant buzzing in the back of my brain._

The Locket must have been in Italy and Harry, slowly but surely, had found himself led straight to it. How Fate stood beside Tom!

They finally reached the front of the line, entering the enormous museum. They meandered through it, Harry pausing at times to study a painting, Tom pausing to study Harry. He was much younger than their previous Life. Even younger than the time they worked for Dumbledore. Barely in his twenties, he was dressed casually and simply, no suits or vests. His glasses were plain and inexpensive and his hair was so wild that Tom’s fingers itched to smooth through it.

“Wow,” Harry gasped as they stepped into the cavernous room where Michelangelo’s David resided. He craned his neck back. “I didn’t realize it was so tall.”

Tom had been dragged through so many Lives that teamed with Muggles that he could no longer ignore their impressive feats. He flipped open Harry’s tour guide.

“Seventeen feet, to be exact.”

“Jesus,” Harry breathed, stepping closer. “Can you imagine carving something so tall?”

“It’s very impressive,” Tom agreed, “but it isn’t nearly the tallest. The Statue of Liberty is over three hundred feet.”

Harry paled.

“And the Leshan Buddha in China is over 200 feet,” Tom continued, “and that was done in 803—”

“I’m starving,” Harry blurted suddenly. “Want to nab some dinner?” And he didn’t so much as walk from David, but sprint.

“Is everything all right?” Tom asked, back outside. He was a bit annoyed that his moment of Muggle trivia had fallen flat. The hours he had spent in pubs while Harry played stupid quizzes…

“Yeah, yeah, great! Beautiful stuff in there. Glad we went. How about some pasta? Got to eat pasta in Italy, right?”

“You seem upset.”

“What? Upset? I’m not upset,” Harry chattered and without even looking where he was going, he stepped into the road, right before an oncoming bus.

Tom yanked him back onto the sidewalk as the bus, horn blaring, barreled past. With a firm grip on Harry’s arm, Tom said firmly, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”

Tom’s glare hardened and Harry looked like a child who’d been called out. He mumbled something, eyes on his trainers.

“I didn’t catch that,” said Tom.

Harry took a great shuddering breath, as if this was costing him something terrible.

“I’m afraid of heights.”

“You’re …” Tom blinked. “What?”

“I’m afraid of heights,” Harry repeated, stronger and angry.

“You’re afraid of heights.” Tom was struck dumb. For Harry to suffer acrophobia that meant … that meant … Elation burst inside his chest. “That’s wonderful!” At Harry’s startled expression, Tom swiftly added, “So am I!”

“Y-you are?”

Tom nodded emphatically. “The flight over here was a nightmare.”

The suspicion left Harry’s face, replaced with a glowing smile. “Me too! I wouldn’t have been able to do it if I wasn’t doped up on sleeping pills. The flight attendant had to actually shake me awake.”

“Still want dinner?” Tom asked.

Harry nodded and they set off. Tom felt like skipping. Harry’s handicap wasn’t amnesia after all! That meant he could absolutely bring back Harry’s memories. He just needed to trigger them.

They found a hole-in-the-wall on a calmer street and were seated by an attentive waiter. One glance at the menu and Harry paled again.

“Why don’t I get a selection?” Tom offered and before Harry could argue, he turned to the waiter and ordered a full course dinner for two in Italian.

Harry stared.

“You know Italian?”

“Just a little,” said Tom as the waiter left with their menus. “I’m better at French.”

_Remember. Remember. We spent every night before bed teaching each other._

“That’s fantastic!” said Harry, jubilant. “All I know is _Where’s the loo?_ Better be careful or I’m not going to let you go.” Harry pinked then as he realized how his joke might be interpreted. He took a hasty gulp of water.

The waiter returned with wine and antipasto. As Harry explored the platter, Tom kept the disappointment from his face with difficulty. Perhaps if he knew what had caused the memory loss…

“Was your acrophobia caused by a trauma?” Tom asked delicately.

Harry plucked a cherry pepper stuffed with cheese from the tray of nibbles.

“Was it for you? I don't see how it was for me. The worst thing that ever happened to me was my parents dying in a car crash.”

In the act of lifting a slice of bruschetta to his mouth, Tom paused. He set it back down.

“When did that happen?”

“When I was a kid. That’s where this came from.” He lifted his fringe and there, on his forehead, was a thin, jagged scar. “My parents died instantly. Anyway. I don’t think that’s where my fear of heights came from. We weren’t even in the mountains.”

“What happened to the driver?” Tom asked.

“Oh, him? Though, I suppose, it could have been a woman. Never caught. Total hit and run.”

“I’m sure he regrets it.”

Harry put the cheese-stuffed pepper back on the platter and rubbed his fingers clean on his napkin.

“Yeah,” he replied shortly. “Probably.”

Tom reached across the table and grasped Harry hand. Startled, Harry met his eyes.

“I’m sure he does,” said Tom with conviction.

Their waiter returned.

“Is everything to satisfaction, signore?”

Blinking rapidly, Harry focused on straightening his fork as Tom released his hand.

“Sì,” said Tom. “Altro pane, per favore.”

The waiter nodded and headed off.

“Sorry,” said Harry, making a clear effort to brighten his mood. “You didn’t ask for all that.”

“It’s all right. I lost my parents when I was a child too.”

“You did?”

“Orphaned since birth. My parents had me out of wedlock and when my father didn’t want anything to do with us, he left. My mother died giving birth to me.”

“Jesus,” Harry breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“It used to consume me — his abandonment; her death. But I’ve moved on. A very old friend” — Tom’s eyes held Harry’s — “showed me how freeing it is to forgive. We may not get the best starts in life, but we can make each moment we have now the best it can be.”

In the restaurant’s candlelight, Harry’s smile was warm. “I like that.”

Without realizing, they’d both leaned closer over their antipasto, but the spell broke upon the waiter’s return with a basket of fresh bread. Pinking again, Harry turned his attention back to the food, pointed at a squiggly lump and asked, “What d’you reckon those are?”

“I believe pickled octopus.”

Harry blanched. 

**oOo**

Harry woke the next morning, refreshed and full of energy, which was surprising as he and Tom had stayed up very late. They had left the restaurant after an incredible meal only to meander slowly back to Harry’s hotel. Harry learned that Tom was staying in the hotel across the square and they agreed to meet again for coffee.

With more excitement than Harry had felt in weeks, he jumped out of bed to dress; the sounds of early shoppers and buses issued through his open window. He left his room, locked the door behind him, and walked down a short hall to the main lobby. The balding owner at the front desk greeted him good morning and he was outside, looking left and right.

His heart skittered. Tom sat at a table before a cafe across the piazza. Dodging a motorbike, Harry hurried to him.

“Hi!” said Harry.

“Hello.”

And as if they had not spent anytime apart, they slid into the comfortable manner as before. Harry was amazed at how easy it was to be around Tom. As easy as being around Ron and Hermione. They got cappuccinos and cornetti.

“Where does your itinerary take you today?” Tom asked.

Harry pulled Hermione’s list from his back pocket. “The Duomo.”

“You’re practically _gushing_ with enthusiasm,” Tom remarked dryly.

Harry’s laugh was strained. “I’m sure it’s spectacular.”

Tom set his elbows on their tiny table and leaned forward.

“You’re the one on vacation. What would _you_ like to do, Harry?”

Harry took a moment to answer.

“Walk,” he finally answered. “Pick a direction and just _go_.”

“Then we’ll do that.”

Harry backtracked swiftly. “I didn’t mean … I don’t want to mess up your vacation.”

“Harry,” Tom stated, “I have absolutely nothing planned. I was supposed to be enjoying a very different kind of trip, if you remember.” (Harry blushed, picturing very easily the sort of vacation his new friend had had in mind.) “You’d be doing me a great courtesy to let me tag along.”

Harry was thrilled.

“Okay. Where should we go first?”

“Direction wise …” Tom took out a pen from his pocket and wrote in each corner of a paper napkin a coordinate. He flipped it over, gave it a sharp spin and pushed it to Harry. “Pick.”

Grinning, Harry peeled up a corner.

“West,” he read, peeking under the napkin.

“Which is” — Tom craned his neck to see the sun — “that way.”

Their route took them into a sprawling market place, stall after stall overflowing with vegetables and fruit. Harry watched a farmer weigh pounds of fresh grapes for an old man with a face like leather. There were dried peppers tied in thick bunches, sweet-smelling herbs and fresh squeezed orange juice. Harry, who, after one courageous bite of pickled octopus the night before, had fallen head over heels. He bought a vat of the marinated shellfish from a corner stall. Sitting on a bench they scooped up fistfuls with chunks of crusty bread while watching mimes and a drumming street performer. Their meandering steps took them to a far smaller church than the Duomo. Posters stacked right inside the door announced a concert later that evening. Deeper inside the building, Harry could hear the singers rehearsing. The acoustics were haunting in their perfection, and for a moment, he forgot that right outside the ancient, wooden doors were honking buses and speeding cars.

Their wandering then led to the Arno River and they settled upon a grassy knoll, eating gelato. Ducks paddled across the calm river, the sprawling branches of a nearby tree swayed in a tranquil breeze, and ten feet to Harry’s left, a couple lounged on the grass, kissing.

Uncomfortable, Harry said, “I’m leaving for Rome on Wednesday.”

Tom, lounging just as comfortably as the couple, said, “Oh?”

“And I was wondering if … I was thinking …”

Moans began to float from the groping couple. Desperate to drown them out, Harry blurted, “I was wondering if you’d like to come along.”

Tom sat up.

“But you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Harry quickly amended.

“I’d love to.”

Harry blinked. “You would?”

“Very much so.”

Suddenly, the snogging couple vanished from Harry’s consciousness. He beamed, a glowing ember of light burning hot in his chest.

* * *

The days continued as such. Harry felt that he’d stepped into one of those stupid romantic films Hermione liked so much where everything was rose-tented and far too perfect to be real. Not that he had any romantic feelings for _Tom._ That would just be ridiculous.

Tom always waited for him outside the hotel; they ate pastries at their favorite cafe; they explored Florence. Hermione’s carefully crafted list was forgotten in Harry’s hotel room. On the final day before Rome, they spontaneously decided to leave the city for the Tuscan countryside. They bought a lunch to go, boarded a bus and set off. On it, Harry learned that Tom hadn’t just been a painter. He had worked for a private security organization after dabbling at ranching, but originally he was —

“ _A_ _magician_?”

“I prefer the title wizard, but yes.”

Harry laughed in disbelief. “No way. You were an _actual_ magi — sorry — _wizard_? Doing tricks and everything?” 

Tom plucked an apple from the bag holding their lunch. He removed the stem, took the apple between his hands and with a crack, split it clean in two.

“How did you do that?” Harry gasped.

“Magic,” said Tom, teasingly, tossing a half to Harry.

“Oh, come on! You’ve got to show me.”

“Sorry. A wizard never reveals his secrets.”

* * *

The bus stopped and they hiked a stunning trail, eating cherries right from the trees as they went. Tired and slightly sweaty from the August sun, they hopped back on the bus to return to Florence in time for a late dinner. As they rumbled down tiny roads, Harry spotted an abandoned newspaper on the seat opposite him. A large photo of a woman took up half the page and Harry did a double take. He reached across the aisle and snatched it up, staring at the black and white picture.

“Something wrong?” Tom asked.

His arm was draped across the seat, a constant presence at the back of Harry’s neck. The bus’ seats were small and Harry was intensely aware of how his right leg was pressed firmly against Tom’s left. Trying to ignore how much Harry was in the man’s personal space, he showed him the article.

“Can you read this?”

Tom looked at the photo. He straightened and took the paper.

“Her name’s Hepzibah Smith,” said Tom. “According to this, she was murdered earlier this week in Milan.”

“Murdered?”

“The police are keeping the details to themselves, but apparently, a priceless heirloom was stolen as well.” Tom’s eyes leveled with Harry’s. “Did you know her?”

“How would I know some rich old woman?” said Harry.

Uncomfortable, he shifted on the faux leather, trying to create space between them, but Tom’s arm remained draped over the back of the seat, locking him in place. He _didn’t_ know her. How could he? Judging by the jewels pinned in her teased hair and on the choker around her throat, Hepzibah Smith wasn’t the kind Harry would bump into at the post office, but…

“Was she an actress or something?” Harry asked Tom.

“She’s described as being a recluse. A multi-billionaire recluse. Why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Try me.”

Harry chewed on his bottom lip. “Ever since I can remember I’ve had these really weird dreams. I’m a woman, for starters, and a really old maid is always entertaining me with charades. Anyway. One time I looked at myself in a mirror and …” Harry’s eyes drifted back to the photo in Tom’s lap.

“You were Hepzibah?” said Tom, putting two and two together.

“Crazy, right?” said Harry with a forced laugh. “All this time I thought I made her up and now she’s dead.”

* * *

The bus pulled into Florence just shy of seven-thirty and the cherries and sandwiches had long ago worn off. They dove into the first restaurant they came to, a smoky, dark place that would have fit in well with the Middle Ages. The stone floor was warped and smooth, the tables and chairs made of thick, heavy wood and the lamps along the walls shining just enough light to eat by. Harry had never tasted a better ragu. Sated, they left the restaurant, taking a longer, yet more scenic route back to their hotels, sticking to the side streets and quieter neighborhoods. Maybe nights in Italy were imbued with the wine they made; Harry felt drunk though he’d only had two glasses.

Did Tom feel the same?

He was … captivating. Harry had never met anyone so captivating. So … spellbinding. That was the word Tom had used when they’d first met on the train. Embarrassed and horrified, Harry had tried not to think about it again, but now, as they walked side by side, Harry realized that even though Tom had thought he was someone else, he’d still said that word. He had still looked at Harry, eyes swallowing him whole, and called him spellbinding.

“You want to talk about it?” Tom asked.

Harry’s heart hammered, wondering how Tom could possibly know what he’d been thinking all evening long. He hadn’t been _that_ obvious, had he?

“I — well …” Harry fumbled.

“Because the fact that you dreamed about Hepzibah is nothing to — why are you laughing?”

“I wasn’t thinking about her!” said Harry, so relieved that he had to stop in the street to get himself back under control.

“Then what were you thinking about?”

And just like that, his guts bunched up in a writhing ball. “I — uh —” _Play it cool, Harry. **Play it cool.**_ “I was actually thinking about what you said to me on the train.” They stood on the edge of the piazza, the street lamps glowing around them. Harry kept his eyes firmly fixed on the splashing fountain in the center of the square instead of the man beside him. “You, erm, said something like—”

“I said that you were spellbinding.”

And suddenly, Harry couldn’t look anywhere but at Tom.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That was it.”

“And you are.”

When had Tom stepped close? Or had Harry been the one to shift the half-step?

“I could paint you, if you wanted,” Tom offered.

“Me? In a painting?” Harry was lightheaded and his laugh came out jittery. “What kind of paintings do you do?”

“Nudes.”

Harry turned radish red and Tom’s lips formed a sideways grin. He felt Tom’s fingers brush against his. What was wrong with taking a risk? His life back home was stagnate, the only thrill when he managed to pay the bills on time. But falling into the bed of a man he’d only known for three days?

“Signore! Signore Potter! Signore!”

Harry jerked as if stung. The balding manger of his hotel ran across the paving stones, waving his arms.

“Signore,” he panted, reaching them. “I am so sorry — I only just discovered —”

He and Tom followed the panicked man into the hotel and down the hall to the room Harry had rented. The door had been forced open and the entire place was upended. Stunned, Harry entered. His clothing and belongings littered the floor. The bed’s mattress had been slashed, all the stuffing pulled out. Each drawer of the cupboard and wardrobe had been removed.

“Is anything missing?” Tom asked him.

“I — I don’t know.”

“Look around,” said Tom.

“I am very sorry, signore!” the manager raged. “ _Questo è inaccettabile._ We will take care of this, signore. You will have the private suite, free of charge. Very good suite. _Una vista mozzafiato sulla città!_ ”

Harry looked at Tom.

“It has an excellent view of the city.”

Harry’s stomach dropped.

“No,” he said quickly. “Thank you, very much, but no. Is there another room on the ground floor?”

The manager shook his head. “This is the only one, signore.”

“Then I’ll just clean it up,” said Harry, speaking fast. “This is fine.”

“Harry, you cannot stay here,” said Tom with force.

“ _I am not staying on the top floor_ ,” Harry hissed. “You know I can’t stay on the top—” Just thinking about it made his lungs seize. Tom gripped him by both arms and steered him to the bed.

“Breathe,” Tom ordered. He turned back to the manager. “Does this suite have two bedrooms?”

“Just the one, signore.”

“Does it have a couch?”

The manager nodded and Harry blurted, “What?”

“Don’t argue,” said Tom. “I’m not leaving you alone after this.” He turned back to the manager. “Have the police been notified?”

“Sì. They —” Commotion down the hall had the manager turning. “They are here. I will speak with them.”

Tom stayed with Harry as the police asked their questions. Had Harry noticed anyone suspicious lurking about the hotel? Did Harry have anything particularly of value? Was anything missing?

No, no, and no.

Harry had no idea who would break into his room, tear it to pieces and then leave without a souvenir, for though his belongs were scattered about like wreckage from a plane crash, everything was accounted for, even his Walkman. The police scribbled a few more notes on their pads of paper and departed, the manager showing them out. Tom left him only then to get his luggage (“I’ll meet you in the lobby”) and Harry began shoveling his things back into his suitcase. By the time he finished, Tom had returned, holding just a carryall.

“Come on,” said Tom.

They entered the elevator.

“Just don’t look out the windows.”

Jaw clenched, Harry nodded. 

* * *

“Tell me what you do.”

Harry knew Tom was trying to distract him. He appreciated it. As Tom went about the room — which was both cozy and ostentatious — pulling the curtains closed over far too many windows, Harry sat on the edge of the bed. He rubbed his sweating palms on his jeans.

“I own a bookshop.”

Tom looked at him over his shoulder. “A bookshop?” He sounded surprised.

Harry nodded, worried he was about to be sick. His mind wouldn’t stop flashing the number of floors they’d dinged past as they climbed up and up and up—

“What’s it called?” Tom asked, his voice light yet odd, as if he teetered on the edge of laughter. “Flourish and Blotts?”

“No, but that’s a good one. I should have used that.” Harry stood, agitatedly moving about the room. “It’s tiny, squeezed between a tattoo parlor and a pub. I get an interesting mix of customers.”

“What’s it called?”

“It’s stupid. I should change it. Yours was better.”

“What’s it called?” Tom asked again.

“Seeker,” Harry answered. “Well, the Seeker’s Bookshop, officially. I was totally plastered when I came up with it because I wasn’t expecting the owners to let me rent the building. I liked the ring of it at the time, but—”

“I think it’s perfect,” said Tom.

Harry face grew warm, an embarrassed yet pleased smile flickering into life. “It’s quirky,” he went on, no longer feeling quite so nauseous. “The local paper actually called it the Quirkiest Bookshop in London. The builders made a mistake with leveling the foundation, so the ceiling’s sloped and one of the supporting walls is at a really unnerving angle, though everyone assures me that the building’s fine. The pipes bang like they’re possessed — that’s where I set up the horror section. And I have an owl.”

“You have an owl?”

“Yeah.” Harry grinned. “Her name’s Hedwig. I don’t have a clue where she came from. I was opening shop one morning and she hopped right through the door. She had a broken wing and I nursed her back to health. I keep expecting her to not come back when she flies off to hunt, but she always does. The family who owns the building — the Lovegoods — they’re ecstatic that I have an owl, so they let me keep her in the shop. People can’t get enough of her. I swear I’ve sold more books just because she’s there.”

“It sounds magical.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Harry, realizing that he’d been babbling. “But I like it.”

“Do you live over the bookstore?”

Harry let out a long breath. “Yeah. My therapist was over the moon when I told him I was renting. Remus swears I’m making progress, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. How are _you_ handling it so well?” Harry demanded, both annoyed and envious at Tom’s calm composure. The man had hardly broken a sweat. “Do you _really_ have acrophobia?”

Tom smiled. “I decide other things are more important.”

“You just … squash it down?” said Harry, astounded. “How do you do that?”

“But Harry, you’ve done it too.”

Harry frowned, confused, and Tom explained, “You wanted a bookshop, even though it meant living in the flat above it. You chose that shop was more important. And I’m choosing that to be steady for you, right now, is more important than letting my fears take hold.”

Harry was moved beyond words.

“It’s late,” said Tom. “We’re off to Rome tomorrow; we should get some sleep. Do you want to use the bathroom first or shall I?”

* * *

Harry hard a very hard time falling asleep and it wasn’t because of the bizarre break in or the terrifying distance from the ground or even the revelation that the woman who’d plagued his dreams for twenty-two years had not only been real but murdered in the very same city that he had flown to. No, what kept Harry wide awake was the fact that Tom was there. Harry wasn’t even sure if the man was asleep. The room was unnaturally still, as if they both held their breath. How could he possibly relax, knowing that he could slip off the bed, pad six silent steps across the floor and drape himself right on top of the man? What would Tom do if Harry joined him on the couch and spooned against him, arms wrapping around his middle? What would Harry do if Tom’s dark, tall frame suddenly appeared at the foot of the bed?

* * *

Harry was exhausted, his eyes itching and stinging. He must have dozed off at some point, for when he woke it was to find the room empty and a note in Tom’s handwriting left on the night table.

His heart skipped a beat, breath stilling in his lungs as he realized Tom had stood right there while he’d slept. And then, blushing down to his roots, he was shaken, disturbed by his train of thought last night. Had he really contemplated having sex—

_No,_ Harry thought sharply.

But maybe … a kiss?

If anything, Harry was more shaken. He hadn’t dated anyone since his first year at Uni and that had been a complete disaster. And who was he pining after?

_A stranger_ , Harry berated himself. _An absolute stranger with eyes like crystal and a voice like—_

Harry stopped himself, blushing deeper. Groaning, he dropped his face in his hands. He was more besotted than Hermione had been with that actor, Gilderoy Lockhart.

What was he going to do? He couldn’t possibly take back his invite for Tom to join him in Rome. And would Rome lead to the other stops along Italy’s boot? Naples? Foggia? Sicily? Would Harry find himself sharing that private villa with Tom with nothing to do but hike and cook and — God. It was like he was the fainting heroine on the cover of those romance novels. The image caused a wild laugh to escape him. Maybe that should be Tom’s next painting. The two of them posing for _Lustful Summer_.

He took Tom’s note.

_Running errands. Stay in hotel._

Harry frowned at Tom’s tone. He’d fit in as the overbearing manor lord easily. Snorting, Harry put the note aside, rose from the bed, dressed and set about organizing his hastily packed luggage. He turned as someone knocked on the door.

“Breakfast, signore!” beamed the hotel’s manager when Harry opened the door. He carried a tray with coffee and pastries.

Harry was thoroughly baffled.

“I didn’t order any—”

The man waved away Harry’s words like they were errant flies.

“On the house!” he cheered, entering the room and setting the tray down. “I feel badly for the … ah, what is the word? _”_ The manager mimed a fist pounding into his other hand.

“Break in?” Harry suggested. “You don’t need to,” he assured him.

“All is good? Room is good?”

“Excellent,” said Harry with feeling. “It’s beautiful.”

The manager beamed so wide his eyes crinkled. “Grazie!”

And before Harry could stop him, the man strode past the couch to the large double windows. With a yank, he pulled back the curtains and Florence dazzled in the morning light. Harry got one look at the cityscape before squeezing his eyes shut, his stomach rolling.

“ _Bellissima_ ,” the man sighed.

“Yes,” Harry agreed tightly. “Very.”

Delighted, the manager departed and Harry, with his eyes firmly averted, groped for the curtains, yanking them shut. He staggered back, collapsing onto the couch with the same attitude of someone who’d nearly fallen face first off a cliff. Once he calmed himself down, he rose, returning to the mayhem of his suitcase. They would be catching the Hogwarts Express for Rome at eleven, and as Harry glanced at the clock, he hoped Tom would be back in time. His eyes fell upon Tom’s carryall, tucked up against the couch. Harry was impressed with the man’s travel skills. To pack so light …

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, curious.

He knelt and unzipped the bag. Shirts, trousers … Harry riffled through, not entirely sure what he was hoping to find.

He blinked. In the bottom of the bag was a thick layer of money and the locket that had been slipped into his jacket pocket in the Milan train station. Harry hadn’t thought about the locket once since, so distracted by Tom. He must have left it in the dining car when he’d bolted. He picked it up, letting its chain slither through his fingers.

_With a crack, the icy lake split open … he dove, frigid water shocking his body but he kicked his legs, swimming down to the sword that lay on the muddy lake bed. He reached for the handle and the locket’s chain twisted around his throat, strangling him—_

The doorknob rattled. Harry jerked, stuffing the locket back into the bag, zipping it shut, shoving it back into place and jumping to his feet just as Tom entered.

“Hi!” said Harry.

“Hello,” said Tom. He frowned, taking Harry in. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Great.” Harry felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. “Pastry?”

Bemused, Tom took one from the plate Harry thrust under his nose.

“Thank you. Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Harry jabbered. He grabbed his suitcase and hurried past Tom.

**oOo**

Something was wrong. The problem was, what?

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Tom asked.

He and Harry stood on the curb outside the hotel, waiting for the prearranged taxi to arrive and take them to the train station.

“Yeah,” said Harry in a manner that fooled no one. “Just excited. Rome today! What d’you want to do first when we get there?”

“What’s on your friend’s itinerary?”

With Harry focused on extracting Granger’s list from his trunk, Tom scanned the piazza. No one suspicious, which didn’t soothe Tom in the slightest. That break in had not been a random bit of bad luck. When it came to he and Harry, nothing was ever a coincidence. His ‘errands’ that morning had consisted of settling himself on a darkened corner with the hotel in clear view and watching. Cyclists and bent-backed women who looked like wizened old crows were all who’d passed. If anyone was covertly watching Harry’s hotel, they were doing a bang up job at staying hidden.

“Got it,” said Harry, straightening, just as the taxi pulled up.

They loaded their luggage into the boot and zoomed off. Tom kept an eye on the rear-view mirror, but the drive was uneventful. The station was packed, like everywhere else in Florence. Sidestepping a team of beggars, Tom grabbed their luggage, and walking so close to Harry that they bumped elbows, they entered the station. In no time at all, the scarlet locomotive was before them and Tom had one foot on the boarding steps when Harry suddenly blurted, “Shit. I forgot—”

“Forgot what?”

“I promised Ron and Hermione I’d send a postcard from every city.”

“So they won’t get one from Florence.”

“No, I want to. I saw some for sale at the front—”

“Harry—”

“I’ll only be a sec!”

“ _Harry—_ ” But he was gone, vanishing into the crowd. “Goddammit,” Tom cursed. “Here.” He shoved their bags into an attendant’s arms and stormed after him.

He reached the gift shop at the station’s entrance, but Harry wasn’t there. He turned, wondering if he’d passed him returning to the train and missed—

“TOM!”

Through the gift shop’s windows, Tom saw three thick-set men forcing Harry into a car. Tom sprang to action, sprinting out of the station just as the car pulled away.

“Hey!”

A motorcyclist, who’d just dismounted from his bike, cried out in alarm as Tom leapt onto it, kicking it into gear and shooting after the car. Weaving through traffic, the kidnappers came back into sight. To not draw attention to himself, he fell back, keeping the car in view.

Out of Florence they drove, speeding through rolling hills, the air growing saltier with each winding turn. They left the main road, cutting a narrow path through thick trees; the road twisted upward, curving out of the woods to hug a coastal cliff. Tom’s ears popped. He wondered if Harry was throwing up.

As if they were on the back of a dragon’s tail, they serpentinely climbed until finally coming to a stop. Tom turned off the motorbike’s engine, hiding in the cover of prickly shrubbery. Nestled in the trees, on a manicured, terraced lawn was a stately villa. The same three men forced Harry out of the car and Tom finally got a good look at them. They were the same men who’d kidnapped Scorpius Malfoy two Lives ago — Fenrir Greyback and two lackeys. Tom snorted. Honestly, could these Lives be slightly more creative?

“Let — go — of — me!” Harry raged, kicking shins.

They marched him into the house. Staying low, Tom darted through the trees.

**oOo**

“Let go of me! Let go—!” Harry dug in his heels, but the largest and smelliest of the gang plowed his thick fist into Harry’s diaphragm.

Wheezing, Harry doubled up.

“That’s better,” said the man. He gripped Harry by the hair, sharp nails scraping his scalp, and yanked him down a polished terracotta floor. He was shoved unceremoniously into a chair. His wrists were roughly tied to the arm rests. Standing against a large desk and watching with a wide-set smile was an extremely short woman. A small bow was pinned in her curly hair.

“What’s going on?” Harry demanded. “Who are you?”

“’Arry Potter, Madam Umbridge,” said the leader of the gang. “As ordered.”

“Thank you, Greyback,” said the woman and her voice startled Harry. The fluttery, girlish sound that issued from her mouth was at complete odds with her toad-like appearance.

The woman — Umbridge — passed Greyback an envelope. He inspected the contents. Appearing pleased, he stepped back, joining his mates against the wall and sliding the packet into his leather jacket.

“You have been a _very_ _naughty boy_ , Mr. Potter,” Umbridge simpered, her mean black eyes sending shivers down Harry’s spine.

“I actually don’t think I have,” Harry disagreed, “since you’re the ones who kidnapped me.”

Umbridge picked up a folder from the desk and walked to him.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out.” She flipped open the folder and pulled out a large and grainy photograph. “Security footage.” She revealed photo after photo, a blow by blow encounter of the man who’d bumped into Harry at the Milan train station. “I know Scabior gave it to you.”

“What?” said Harry, confused.

Her voice grew sweeter. “Scabior and you were in it together. Scabior and his greedy, grubby fingers stole my locket and knowing that I was about to catch him, he handed it off to you, his partner in crime.” She leaned forward and Harry leaned back, pressing his back firmly against the chair. “Give me my locket and I just might forget all about this.”

“I don’t have your locket.”

_Slap!_

Right cheek stinging, Harry’s eyes watered, staggered by the force of her blow.

“Do not lie to me, dear,” Umbridge whispered. “It is a dreadful thing to do.”

From the wall, Greyback cracked his knuckles.

“Want us to take a turn, miss?”

“Not yet, Fenrir. Harry’s going to tell me the truth, aren’t you Harry? You’re going to tell me where my locket is.”

“I lost it.”

“You” — Umbridge’s breathy voice fluttered — “ _lost_ it?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “There was a hole in my pocket. Lost it days ago.”

“He’s lying,” said Greyback at once.

“I know he’s lying, Fenrir,” Umbridge breathed. She rose herself up to her tallest height, which wasn’t impressive at all, but her bulging eyes grew wider. “Do you think I am not prepared to do whatever it takes?” she asked Harry dangerously. “After _Hepzibah_?”

The murder in the paper …

“You killed her,” said Harry.

“Of course I killed her!” said Umbridge and her laugh was so ringing and girlish that Harry’s insides iced over. “Harry, you are astonishingly stupid! I’m surprised it took Fenrir so long to track you down.”

“That locket belonged to Hepzibah,” said Harry.

“No, it didn’t!” said Umbridge shrilly. “It belonged to me! I was taking back what was mine by birthright.”

Behind Umbridge and the brutes was a balcony, the view blocked by gossamer curtains. They swayed in a light breeze and Harry saw the outline of a tall figure through the sheer material.

“How do you figure that?” Harry asked, sweat forming on his forehead. If anyone looked around … if Greyback or one of the others decided to step out for a smoke …

“Selwyn!” said Umbridge passionately. “The locket has been in my family for genera—”

“The S on the locket doesn’t stand for Selwyn,” said Harry derisively. “It stands for —” Harry froze. Like a switch in his brain, everything came back, bright and clear and blinding. “ _Slytherin_ ,” he whispered, breathless. “Oh my god.”

“Who the hell’s Slytherin?” Greyback asked.

“My ancestor,” said Tom.

Alarmed, Umbridge, Greyback and his two partners turned as Tom appeared.

“The hell!”

Tom sucker punched Lackey One right in the jaw.

“Barny!” Lackey Two cried out. “You bastard!”

Tom ducked under a flying fist, kicking the man’s legs out from under him. With a roar, Greyback pulled out a gun, but Tom plowed into him. The gun went off, bullets burrowing into stucco. On the ground, they wrestled, fighting for the gun. It went off again, inches from Tom’s face. With a sharp jab, Tom banged his elbow into Greyback’s nose. Blood splatted. Tom punched him again, and with a groan, Greyback fell back, unconscious. Lackey Two clambered back to his feet and lunged for Tom, wrapping his arms around him. Grimacing, Tom struggled before throwing his head back, smashing his skull into the assailant’s face. The man cried out, releasing him and Tom grabbed a bronze statue from the desk and walloped him across the temple. He crumpled. Snatching up Greyback’s fallen gun, Tom spun around, aiming for Umbridge, but she’d already scampered from the room.

“Wow,” Harry breathed.

Tom hurried to him. “Are you all right?” he demanded, untying his wrists. “Did they hurt you? Are you _mmph_ —”

Arms freed, Harry launched himself, wrapping his arms around Tom’s neck and kissing him full on the mouth. Startled, Tom pulled back.

“You remember—?”

Grinning, Harry nodded.

Tom’s face glowed. He pulled Harry flush and kissed him with stomach-swooping intensity, but Harry stopped it before things got out of hand.

“Maybe we should get out of here first?” he suggested.

Dazed, Tom looked at the sprawled bodies as if he’d forgotten all about them.

“Right.”

He took Harry’s hand and they poked their heads into the hall. The coast was clear.

“Hurry,” Tom hissed. They sprinted down the hall to the front door, not coming across anyone. “I left a motorbike over there.” Tom pointed to a patch of trees past a low garden wall.

“You chased me on a motorcycle?” said Harry, impressed. “Hot.”

Tom smirked at him. Looking left and right, they darted across the courtyard, but they were forced to hide for cover behind a large, stone fountain. Two men with walkie-talkies had found Tom’s motorbike.

“Now what?” Harry asked.

Tom bit his bottom lip, thinking.

“Do you remember how to hot-wire a car?” he asked in a low voice.

He didn’t like the idea, but Harry nodded. The car Greyback had shoved him into was parked smack dab in the driveway, in clear view of the villa’s many windows and the grounds around it.

Checking to see if the walkie-talkies were looking their way, Tom’s hold on Harry’s hand tightened.

“Keep low,” Tom breathed, but before they could go two steps toward the car, Umbridge burst through the front doors with a gaggle of security.

“GET THEM!” she screamed.

Harry and Tom ran into the trees as gunfire made the gravel skitter. Tom led the way. Behind them, the group followed, crashing through the underbrush.

Appearing out of nowhere, a man lunged, tackling Tom to the ground. The gun was knocked from Tom’s hand, vanishing into the underbrush. Harry leapt onto the assailant’s back, holding him in a headlock. He wheezed, choking, and Tom kicked in his knee.

He screamed; Harry released him and he rolled on the ground, clutching his leg.

“Come on!” said Tom, getting back to his feet.

“Where — are — we — going?” Harry panted as they sprinted.

Tom stopped abruptly beside an enormous wild rosemary. They dropped to the ground, listening. Voices shouted around them in the forest.

“They’re circling,” Harry whispered.

“We’re in Cinque Terre,” Tom told him. “There’s only one main road in and out. We can’t leave that way; they’ll expect it.”

Harry remembered reading about the cluster of seaside towns in the guidebook Hermione had bought him for the trip. “Footpaths! There are footpaths linking all the towns!”

Carefully, Tom peered around the rosemary bush. “I think we found one.”

“Excellent!” Harry breathed. “We’ll take it down to the —”

But the sounds of sticks snapping under boots had them both ducking back down. On the other side of the bush, Umbridge’s security appeared. A walkie-talkie crackled as one of them spoke into the microphone.

“We’ve got the north end blocked.”

“Copy that,” crackled a reply. “South side is handled. They’re not getting out without us knowing. Over and out.”

The walkie-talkie clicked off and the men moved further down the trail.

“What do we do?” Harry hissed. “If they’ve got all the paths blocked…”

“I have an idea,” said Tom, “and you’re not going to like it.”

“No,” said Harry at once. “No. No. No.”

“We’re on a hillside—”

“That’s not a hill!” said Harry in a strangled voice. “It’s a _cliff_!”

“We climb down—”

“ _Climb down?_ ”

“Once we reach the water,” Tom continued, “we’ll be able to vanish into the town.”

Harry shook his head, feeling sick all over again. “The forest—”

“We’ll get lost if we go through the forest and they’ll expect that. They’d never guess that we’d climb down to the ocean—”

“ _Because it’s crazy!_ ”

“I’ll be right next to you the whole time.”

The shakes worsened, his very teeth chattering.

“I can’t believe I’m scared of heights,” Harry muttered wildly, feeling a panic attack on the rise. “Me. _Scared of heights._ ”

“We’ll take it one step at a time,” said Tom reassuringly. “I won’t let you fall.”

“Tom, I really don’t think I can do this. You saw how I was in the elevator.”

“You _can_ do this,” said Tom. “You can do anything.”

Tom took his hand and Harry allowed himself to be led out onto the footpath. Carefully, they stepped across it. The narrow trail hugged the hillside and as Tom drew Harry closer to the edge, salty wind rushed upward, pushing Harry’s fringe away from his forehead. His stomach rolled at the steep decline, ocean water frothing down below.

_You used to fly_ , Harry reminded himself firmly. _You used to dive fifty feet for fun_.

But those memories only made him sicker.

“One step at a time,” Tom encouraged. “Take it slow. That’s it. You’re doing great.”

Gritting his teeth, Harry lowered down, digging his fingers into the craggy hill face. Inch by inch, they descended, Tom telling him to put his foot on this rock here and to grab that bush there. Harry refused to look down, knowing that if he did he’d freeze into a block of ice.

“ _Stop_ ,” Tom suddenly hissed. “ _Don’t move._ ” 

Harry looked up and was startled by how far they’d traveled down the slope. He flattened himself against the dirt as figures loomed along the footpath. If any of them looked down—

“We have to jump,” Tom whispered in his ear.

“ _What?!_ ”

“On the count of three—”

“ _We are not jumping!_ ”

“Do you want to get shot?” Tom snapped. “On my count—”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. This could not be happening. This could _not_ be happening.

“One.”

He was never leaving his bookshop again.

“Two.”

“HEY!”

They’d been spotted. A man stood over the edge; he pointed his gun; Tom gripped Harry’s wrists, preparing to make him jump—

BANG!

The man overhead jerked out of sight. Harry and Tom stared as a fresh group of people suddenly swarmed into view. The leader ran to the edge of the cliff; he looked down.

“Harry?”

“Bill?”

“Good God!” Bill shouted. “Someone get a rope!”

* * *

Back on flat, solid ground, surrounded by flashing lights and BMWs, Harry and Tom attempted to explain why they had been scaling down a cliff at gunpoint.

“We were hiking,” said Harry, “and got lost.”

“We saw the villa through the woods,” Tom picked up, “and went to ask for directions.”

“But then they started shooting at us,” said Harry.

Arms crossed, Bill’s eyes shifted from Harry to Tom and back again.

“You were lucky,” he said. “You ran into a pretty bad crowd. We’ve been tracking Dolores Umbridge for months. We were on her for embezzling millions from the Smith Foundation. You know that woman who was killed a few days ago — Hepzibah Smith? — we found the murder weapon stuffed up a chimney with Umbridge’s prints all over it.”

They turned to watch a policewoman help Umbridge climb into a vehicle, wrists in handcuffs.

“Goodness,” said Tom and then he turned to Harry, suddenly scolding. “I _told_ you we shouldn’t have left the path. He’s always wandering off,” he informed Bill, sounding like an exasperated babysitter.

Bill cracked a grin. “So I’ve heard.”

“Please don’t tell Ron I was getting shot at,” said Harry.

“As long as it doesn’t happen again,” said Bill. “Where can I drop you off?”

* * *

They hitched a ride in the back of a police car. To Harry’s complete surprise, Pansy Parkinson was behind the wheel. She flashed them both a cheeky wink and clicked on the flashing, blue lights.

“Full speed ahead.”

With traffic clear, they flew.

“The luggage was on the train,” Tom told him. “They’ll deliver it to the hotel.”

“That’s a relief.” Harry had lost his luggage once already on the flight from London. He had no interest in repeating the experience.

Tom inched his hand across the cushion between them. Harry held Tom’s gaze, meeting him halfway; their fingertips touched. They couldn’t talk properly in the car, but hidden behind Pansy’s back, they let their fingers do the talking, exploring knuckles and life lines.

* * *

“Here we are,” said Pansy, pulling up before the hotel in Rome. “Wow. Fancy. You really lucked out with that contest.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, grinning. “Thanks for giving us a lift.”

“Of course. Enjoy your holiday! Don’t get shot at, okay?”

The hotel was luxurious, but Harry hardly paid it any mind. They rushed through their check in — yes, their luggage had been delivered; no, they didn’t need anything; sorry again for being late.

The receptionist passed Harry his key and they hurried down a corridor; Harry put it into the lock as Tom pressed himself against Harry’s back, sliding his hands around his waist and kissing his neck. Harry’s sweating fingers slipped on the key, but the door opened and they stumbled inside. Harry turned in Tom’s arms and they were kissing, kissing like they hadn’t in years and, Harry realized, that was true.

Pants were unzipped, shoes kicked off. Harry put his glasses on a dresser, nearly knocking a very expensive looking lamp off in his haste to wrap his arms back around Tom’s neck. Still kissing, Tom hoisted him up and Harry locked his ankles around Tom’s waist, burrowing his fingers in his hair.

Depositing him on the bed, Tom worked off the rest of Harry’s clothing, placing kisses down his chest.

Harry sucked in a breath as Tom took his length in his mouth. He palmed the sheets, biting his bottom lip. Good God, it had been ages. As Tom bobbed, tongue swirling around the tip, Harry knew he wouldn’t last long.

“Stop,” Harry gasped.

“Is something wrong?” Tom asked.

“No. I just” — Harry sat up — “want you” — he pulled Tom’s shirt up over his head, ruffling his usually tidy hair — “on your back.”

Tom smiled like a wolf. Harry shifted out of the way, letting him lie down, but Tom’s smirk turned to confusion as Harry climbed on top of him, taking a position he had not expected. With his cock dangling above Tom’s face, Harry lowered his mouth to Tom’s member. Tom shivered beneath him and then his lips were back, sucking in Harry’s cock. Harry moaned around the hot flesh in his mouth, lowering his hips slightly to give Tom better access.

God. Oh, God.

Tom’s hands rubbed his thighs, squeezing and kneading as they both sucked, bringing each other closer to the edge. Harry couldn’t hold back anymore and neither could Tom. They thrust their cocks wildly down each other’s throats.

Tom tensed, Harry’s only warning before his mouth was flooded. He drank it all down and Tom pressed his tongue against Harry’s slit—

For a second, his vision went black, his mind wiping clear of every thought as his pleasure soared like a rocket. Quivering, he returned to himself. He was worried his shaking arms would give out and he’d collapse like a log on top of Tom.

“Why haven’t we done that before?” Tom asked, breathless.

“It’s a bit kinky,” Harry panted. He rolled off him and Tom moved up the bed until they were facing each other.

“Does that mean we can do kinky things now?” he asked. “Because I’ve got a few.”

**oOo**

The bed jostled and jerked, thumping against the wall. Tom wondered if someone would hear and complain. Harry’s wrists were secured behind his back with a tie, something Tom never believed Harry would ever agree to. It made his back arch in the most delicious way. Without leverage, Harry used his legs to bounce up and down on Tom’s cock.

“Yes,” Harry moaned, head thrown back. “God — _yes!_ ”

Tom knew he was leaving fingerprints on Harry’s hips, but how could he not when Harry felt so good? He drove his cock upward with every downward bounce, forcing himself deeper. Their pace grew erratic and even more vigorous.

“Touch me,” Harry gasped. “Touch me, please.”

Tom slid his hand up and down Harry’s cock, making him arch even more, letting Tom plow up into him.

Harry came, splattering across Tom’s chest and his channel clenched as tight as a vice around him. Tom saw stars as his own climax rushed to catch up. They stilled. It took a moment, but Tom pulled the tie’s knot loose, freeing Harry’s hands. Breathing hard, Harry rested his palms on either side of Tom’s head, taking a moment to catch his breath. He groped the side of the bed for his discarded shirt and wiped Tom’s chest clean of his spunk, but he didn’t move off Tom. He stayed sitting on top of him, cock buried within him.

Harry’s hair was damp with sweat, his face flushed. He was a beauty. An absolute beauty.

“You lied about having acrophobia.”

“Yes,” said Tom. “Yes, I did that.”

“You are the kindest person I know.”

Tom wrinkled his nose. “Not the _kindest_ —”

“Yes, you are,” said Harry. “You’ve bypassed Hagrid.”

Exasperated, Tom rolled his eyes.

“Thank you.”

Happiness bloomed in Tom’s chest, warming him even more. “Any time.”

Harry bent down and kissed him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t remember you.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but I’m still sorry.”

Harry kissed him again, rocking his hips back and forth.

Arousal building yet again, Tom managed to mutter around Harry’s kisses, “Aren’t we — supposed to be — sightseeing?”

Harry's reply ghosted across Tom’s tingling lips.

“ _Rome can wait._ ”

**oOo**

_Dear Ron and Hermione,_

_Sorry this took so long. The trip started a little hectic, but everything’s great now. Italy is amazing and the_ food _— Honest to God, I can’t go fifteen minutes without eating something. First thing I’m doing when I get back is buying a pasta machine._

_I’ve met someone. His name’s Tom and he used to live in London but hasn’t been there in a long time, though he’s planning on moving back. I like him. A lot. We’re vacationing together. I can’t wait for you to meet him. Needless to say, I’ll be bringing a partner to game nights and we’re going to knock your socks off._

_Thanks again for looking after Hedwig for me._

_Give my best to everyone._

_Yours,_

_Harry_


	9. Epilogue

**_One Life Later…_ **

Harry opened his eyes. Like every time that had come before, mist swirled in a clean and empty Kings Cross. The train, like always, gleamed in a high polish, waiting patiently. Harry gave it a warm smile before turning, intending to stride right back into the depths of mist, intending to return to Tom, but this time, unlike all the other times, someone else was there.

_Tom_ was there.

Harry gaped, stunned.

Tom was just as speechless.

“You’re — you’re out. You’re—” Harry walked around the man, taking in the sight of him. He was whole and normal. “How do you feel?”

Tom flexed his fingers. “Wonderful,” he whispered. “I feel … wonderful. Is this—” He looked at the train. “Is this where you’ve always appeared when you die?”

Harry nodded.

“So when you said…” Tom no longer looked quite so calm. “When you said you’d go _on_ you meant …”

Harry nodded.

“What _is_ on?” Tom asked. “Where will it take us, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “I suppose that’s part of the adventure.”

He held out his hand.

Tom hesitated, but then, with slight trembling fingers, he took it. Harry beamed, feeling that his own happiness was a sunbeam, illuminating the shining Kings Cross even further. They stepped forward, the doors slid open and together, hand in hand, they boarded the train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are complete! Whew. This felt strangely epic for something so short. Memento Mori has always seemed more like a collection of snapshots to me. I’ve never written anything structured quite like this and I’m happy to say that it ended up being what I wanted it to be. It’s a different vibe, a different reading experience, but one I think works.
> 
> As always, thank you so, so, _so_ much for joining me in this story! Your comments, likes, follows and favorites make posting a hell of a lot more fun. If you’re interested in catching my next story when it hits the AO3 presses, be sure to subscribe to me or you could follow me on tumblr: @purplewitch156. 
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> xxpurple


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